


Cockscomb

by birdie7272



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bisexual Female Character, Case Fic, Cheating, Confused John Watson, Control, D/s, D/s without the s.e.x., Dom Sherlock, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Emotions, F/F, F/M, Feelings, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Female Characters, Female John Watson, Female Relationships, Female Sherlock Holmes, Femdom, Feminism, Feminist Themes, Femlock, Femslash, Femslash February, Femslash February 2018, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderbending, Genderswap, Girl John Watson, Girl Sherlock Holmes, It's not even D/s really, Johnlock - Freeform, Lace, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Manipulation, Naive D/s, Pining Sherlock, Podfic Welcome, Power Play, Safewords, Sensual D/s, Sensual Play, Sexuality, Sexuality Crisis, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Slow Burn, Sub John Watson, Truth or Dare, Whiskey - Freeform, but not really a Case fic, cocks, fem!lock, relationships, that's a thing now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-03-02 23:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 96,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13328511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdie7272/pseuds/birdie7272
Summary: Lace, whiskey, and a case full of cocks leads to a brand new kind of adventure.“He doesn’t get it,” Sherlock said, covered the phone and pushed it into John’s lap.  “I do.  I want to.”John frowned and slipped her hands out from under Sherlock’s grip.  She flipped the blinking phone back and forth and glanced up at Sherlock’s hopeful scrutiny.  “No sex?”“No sex.”How could someone Dom -and what a scary word that was- if there was no sexual gratification involved?Feminism, relationships, sexuality, cheating, manipulation, emotions, power, control, and cocks.AKA The One With All The Cocks… When There Are No Cocks(If you are put off by the gender bend, don’t be.  Please.  Give it a shot and if it makes you uncomfortable you can always safeword ;D)





	1. Look

**Author's Note:**

> *sings* I need a beta. I don't know how to find a beta.
> 
> Warning: The word COCK is used no less than [70] times in this fic.
> 
> Also, I worked disgustingly hard on this, so if anyone sees anything amiss, kindly point it out. I will gladly fix any errors, including those that portray our favorite sleuths as anything but believably in character (forgiving that the gender bend does tweak their personalities a tad). Thank you :D 
> 
> Disclaimers at the end of the fic.

* * *

 

John glared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.  This was exactly why she did not bother with makeup.  She could appreciate it as much as the next girl but whenever she tried to do more than mascara, she always managed to make herself look like she had been punched once in each eye by someone with pink tinted brass knuckles.  

“Oh for the love of-”  Sherlock huffed from the door.  “Here-” She thrust out her arm, demanding the eyeshadow brush in John’s hand, threw it into the sink and grabbed a new one.  

John rolled her eyes but closed them and allowed Sherlock to work her miracles.  “I don’t know why you bother letting me try by myself.  You always end up fixing it whenever we go undercover.”

“I always hope you’ll learn.” Sherlock, with her always-perfect cat eyes, winked and grabbed something that looked like liquid gold.  “Close.”

John sighed and complied -the norm of their relationship thus far.  “Explain to me again.  Where exactly are we going that requires me to wear this?”  John grabbed the edges of her form fitting black pleather dress, dangerously high cut with angled three quarter sleeves, and tried pulling it from her body.  It did not budge.  Her muscles and dresses did not usually mix.  One of the reasons she preferred not to wear them.  

“To a den of promiscuity,” Sherlock chuckled darkly.

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

John groaned and opened her eyes, shifting as Sherlock moved behind her- apparently needing to fix her already finished updo.  

“Then why-” John puffed air at her bangs to get them out of her eyes.  It never worked, which was why she had originally pulled them back, “-do you get to wear that?”

Sherlock looked down at her flowing floral sun dress, a soft white with splashes of red and pink, which looked more delicate and artistic than the crime scene it could have been, held up by its halter top ties.  Its softness was very unlike her usual high-class, powerful, fashionista style.  

“It’s a dress too, John,” she said in the tone she reserved for the extra slow.  

John rolled her eyes again.  “Yes, I can see that.  But yours moves.  I can barely sit in mine.”

“Ah!  Good point.” Sherlock spun towards her bedroom, leaving John to look at her half finished hair in bafflement.

“What point,” she mumbled to herself.

The black and blue punched-esque eyes were fixed, transformed into something purple and gold and brown and beautiful.  She pet her thick eyelashes in appreciation and wondered how long it would take her to learn how to do this look.  With Sherlock teaching her, probably twenty minutes.  

Of course, that was assuming Sherlock would be patient enough to last for a full twenty minutes before she became fed up with John’s many swear-filled twitchy fuckups and the sacrifice of six tubes of coverup to fix the mistakes.

John batted her eyes a dozen times, smiled coyly, and sighed.  

If she were still single, she would definitely be on the pull tonight.  Makeup, a skintight dress, lasting tan, and strappy heels… it would be like shooting fish in a very horny barrell.  

John’s eyes flickered to the door, hoping Sherlock would not deduce her mind well enough to hear that horrible analogy -no doubt delightfully willing to point out the flaw with the comparison of a wide, wet tub holding all the floppy pollocks, necessitating John defend her active sexual history and her perfectly tight vagina.  

Martin would probably not appreciate her well established defense or any thoughts about picking up blokes.  Especially not in a ‘den of promiscuity’.  Prostitution was one thing to fake, but if Sherlock expected her to jump on a pole and start stripping, well, she had another thing coming.  Probably a heel swinging at her face on its descent from the ceiling.  John was not wearing a bra in this thing and she was not about to flash for a case.  

Unless she really, really, really needed to.  

Sherlock reentered the room the instant John reached for the lipstick, slapped her hand away and picked up a lighter shade.  “Pucker.”

Whatever Sherlock had left to do for herself, John could not figure it out.  She was wearing the floral dress and matching _sensible_ shoes.  Her hair, as always, was perfectly wavy and curved around her angled face in a graceful bob.  Her makeup was as fantastic as ever.  The only addition she could spy was a necklace.  It was a black lace choker curled around her neck with black beads dangling from the lower half, tangled together in half circles, drawing the eyes down to those prominent collar bones.  It was a bit gaudy for John’s taste and really did not match the delicate floral dress but the red ruby heart sparkling in the center was quite cute.

John rolled her bright pink lips together and frowned preemptively.  She would lick the color off in no time.  Personally, she liked the darker shades, but Sherlock assured her they washed out her face.

“You look gorgeous,” Sherlock told her hurriedly, shoving her around so she could finish the updo.   

John smirked shortly and closed her eyes until Sherlock finished.  

John could confidently say she looked rather fit even without any extra help by coloring her face in like a picture book.  But Sherlock only ever seemed to compliment her whenever it was Sherlock doing the makeup.  It was not her fault Sherlock always looked like sex on heels -even when in flats- and achieved forever even wing tips.  

John snapped a quick picture when Sherlock was not looking and sent it off to Martin, adding a caption reading _‘Sherlock is magic’_.  

Martin replied quickly, as always.  _You look great ;)_

John sighed and tried -and failed- to tuck the phone into what little cleavage she had access too in the tightest dress on the planet, having learned the hard way that she should never carry a purse around Sherlock.  It had been pinched more than once by said Consulting Detective and used to distract both the good and bad guys as a glittery misle.  In one memorable instance, Sherlock had aimed for the open window of the passing perp’s car, missed, and thrown John’s favorite clutch complete with wallet, keys, and Harry’s birthday present directly into the Thames.  

John was contemplating wearing a bum bag just to keep her gun on her.  Giggles be damned.  

“No,” Sherlock said, eyes squinting.  “You would look ridiculous.”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were touching your stomach with both hands just below the belly button.  Most would think you were contemplating carrying spawn in your womb.  Instead, you contemplate adorning yourself with the ultimate form of contraception.  Bum bag,” Sherlock spat the words out as if the very idea were too hideous to even voice aloud.

Well, that put an end to that.

John’s phone pinged.   _Be careful tonight Joan xoxo_

“How nauseating,” Sherlock pushed a bobby pin a bit harder than necessary against John’s scalp.  “Must Melvin mother you so much?”

“It’s Martin,” John corrected and batted Sherlock’s hands away.  “We’ve been together for a half a year.  I think you can learn his name.”

Sherlock huffed.  “He can’t learn yours.”

“Joan is my name,” John sighed.  

“But not the one you prefer.”

“He doesn’t-”

“Yes, yes.  He’s homophobic.  Anyone with eyes can see that.”

John sat on the toilet and readjusted her strappy heels, praying to any Powers That Be that she would not have to chase a villain tonight.  These shoes were brand new.  A gift to herself after the last case because she had to put up with Sherlock after the idiot decided staying up for five days in a row was a good choice to make.  They were well deserved indeed.

“I’ve told you, he’s not homophobic. He just wants people to know who he’s dating.  Saying John gets confusing.”

“Not that he tried,” Sherlock mumbled around the pin in her mouth, bobbing like a cigarette.  

John shook her head.  They had circled this argument too many times before.  She was actually surprised Sherlock would still have it.

Joan was the name on her birth certificate and John was a nickname from early army days.  It was a completely sexist name earned for her ability to ‘fight like a man’ but she appreciated the memory and the name stuck.  

Martin had every right to call her by her Christian name.  

It was like starting a new chapter in her life, dating him.  As such, he wanted to help her leave the Afghanistan chapter behind.  It was time for Mrs. Joan H Watson, not Doc John W.  He was never in the military, he did not understand her attachment to it.  

Having to explain over and over that he was, in fact, dating a girl would get old.  

John understood.  

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent but it sounded like, “Girlfriend” and “Female”.  

“What?” John asked.

“Let’s go,” Sherlock said and glided out of the bathroom before John could fix her other shoe.

* * *

John’s eyes flitted over the dimly lit room, her mouth open.  When she finally landed on Sherlock, she growled, “Den of promiscuity?”

This was no normal club.  There was a dance floor but it was small and everyone was packed tight together, rubbing up against each other to the sultry music, not one person actually dancing.  The rest of the area was taken up by small dens and alcoves filled with couches and people in various states of undress doing nefarious acts to one another, each surrounded by hoards of rapt audience members.  The bar was the best lit and there John could see couples -some in more than just pairs of two- in costumes of leather and lace beyond reasonable levels for any one outfit.  Notably, one man held a girl at his feet with a metal link chain connected to a necklace looping around her neck above her schoolgirl crop top and skirt.

John’s eyes darted to Sherlock’s choker and she glared.

“Good,” Sherlock said.  “Keep looking angry at me like that.”

“Oh, that will not be hard,” John snapped.

“I thought you would be happy, John,” Sherlock pouted, shamming it perfectly.  “You get to tell me what to do for the night.”

“We are in-” John quieted as another couple passed them and dropped her voice to a whisper.  “We are in a sex club.  Together.  As in _together_ together.  In a sex club!”  She glared at a pulley system in the corner that had an enthusiastic twenty something tied into it by his bulky boyfriend -or lover or dominatrix or whatever he was.  “Did Ian put you up to this?”

“Ian?”

“Ian Adler.”

Sherlock shivered with either revulsion or desire, John could never be sure.

“That man has no part in this,” Sherlock spat.  “Our client simply needs us to prove his sister’s boyfriend killed their aunt.”

“Oh well, if that’s all, then-”

“Later,” Sherlock threw a finger over her lips and gestured to the bar, her eyes sparkling with excitement.  “Three o’clock.  Chubby man with the red beard that’s grown to an ungodly length.  Blue button up that’s stretched beyond all reasonable levels.  Sweat stains visible under the arms and chest.”

John found the man she was talking about and curled her nose up.

“My thoughts exactly,” Sherlock said.  “He’s trying to pick up a sub.  He’s not having luck with the blonde, she’s not that desperate.  But the brunette on his other side is.  That is until he meets me.”

“You mean-” John grabbed her by the arm.  Another sweep of the immediate area revealed no threats but she still pulled Sherlock close enough for their legs to touch and their foreheads to bump.  “You want to go-” She fanatically flapped her hand between them.  “With him?”

“God no,” Sherlock slapped her hand away, repulsed.  “I need to observe.  We will be here for at least a half hour before I try anything.  Or should I say, you do.”

“What are you bloody-”

“Drink first.”  Sherlock pushed John towards the bar.  “Then mingle.  Remember, tell me what to do.”

John nearly tripped in her new heels and grit her teeth.  There was no point in arguing now that they were already there.  Which was probably exactly according to Sherlock’s plan.

When they reached the blessed bar the girl with the chain was sucking her boyfriend off.  Fantastic.  John’s face heated up and she glanced back at the floor.

Sherlock nudged her with her elbow.  “Eyes up.  My eyes are down.”

“Right,” John growled.  She was the dominatrix or whatever.  Double fantastic.

After ordering drinks, John led them to the less occupied alcove of couches, hoping that Sherlock would get all she needed from afar and they would not have to do anything… indecent.  She decided then and there that this case would not be making it into the Sherlock memoirs and she would definitely be fudging the details for the blog and Martin’s sake.

“Is Marco really that much of a prude?” Sherlock asked, gracefully sinking to her knees in front of the couch.  

“Martin,” John corrected automatically.  She tried to sit down next to Sherlock, but Sherlock looked up at her with wide eyes, frantically shaking her head.  

“You sit on the couch,” Sherlock urged between her teeth.  “Only subs sit on the floor.”

“Oh,” John fumbled with the drink in her hand, eyes darting around the room.  There were a few set of eyes on her, all with equally befuddled expressions.  “Right.”  

It was very hard to sit on a squeaky couch when her dress squeaked too.  The tight fit cut into her stomach and she was not quite sure how to drape her legs without revealing too much thigh.  

“John,” Sherlock grunted from the floor.  “If we are going to make this convincing, you need to act like you fit in.”

That was Sherlock’s _your tiny brain is starting to irritate me_ voice but John could not be asked to care.  “If I had known we would be going to a sex club, I might have prepared a little more.”  After a second she added, “Or just not gone at all.”

“Not according to your browser history,” Sherlock mumbled.

John’s red face turned purple and her eyes ducked to her chipped nails stretched across her rum and coke.  If Sherlock was researching her porn habits, which were perfectly normal thank you very much, John would seriously need to consider buying a separate computer for purely personal purposes.  

“I’d find it on any device,” Sherlock replied to her unvoiced thought.  “Quick, act like a Dom.  Someone is coming.  Say this is your first time taking me out.  Ask for a demonstration.  And for god’s sake, observe.  Look.  Learn how to behave.  I need to keep my eyes on chubby.”

John wanted to growl something about how horribly inappropriate this was and how Sherlock really crossed a line putting John into this situation without them having any sort of talk first, but Sherlock’s head was already down and the couple ahead were fast approaching.  

The Dom in this relationship was a beautiful, thick, dark woman.  Half her head was shaved, revealing a glittery gold earing that dangled all the way down her leather corset.  And, of course, she had leather pants as well.  

Was leather always necessary for a Dom?

The sub was a cute, petite but curvy girl, her tiny blue dress shining against her glowing white skin and platinum blonde hair.  Her eyes were downcast as her Dom led the way into the circle and took a seat near but not too close to John, not even acknowledging Sherlock in any way.

John nodded and she nodded back before gesturing for her sub to kneel beside her, closer to Sherlock.  Sherlock’s head tilted to the side, deducing easily before shifting her focus back to the bearded man.  

“I’m Alex,” the Dom said and held out her hand.  

John took it and replied, “Joan,” before grasping her drink again.  It was always better to use her given name when under cover.  Less questions.  

“We don’t see a lot of lesbian couples here,” Alex said warmly, saluting John with her cup of whiskey.  “It’s nice to see you out.  Are you new here?”

“Yeah.” John shifted closer, leaning into Sherlock so she could be heard over the music.  “It’s my first time taking Sherly here out.”  She plopped her hand down on Sherlock’s head and gave it a pat, knowing how much she hated that nickname and how much she would loath having her hair mussed up without being able to fix it.  Tiny victories.

“This is Beth,” Alex said, gesturing towards her sub.  Beth did not move at all, just stared resolutely at the floor with her hands behind her back.  “We’ve been coming here for over two years now.  You’ll love it.” Alex sat back in the sofa and called to her, “Beth, show Joan how we greet people.  Be extra polite about it.”

Beth instantly rose to her feet and approached John, stopping at the tips of John’s strappy shoes.  

John shifted.  

This would be about the time she could have used handy directions decided upon in something resembling a pre-undercover briefing.   Instead of some form of orders, all she had was staring up at the meek, young girl while her mouth fell open and her eyes bugged out of their perfectly decorated sockets.  The bewildered stares were slowly returning.

Beth was no help with her head forever tilted downward.  

Sherlock was just as silent.

Get it together, Watson.

Alex threw her a bone.  “Joan, give her permission.”

John tried to hide her sigh of relief, cleared her throat, and shot Beth an apologetic smile.  “I give you permission.”

Beth’s crystal clear blue eyes fluttered up and she leaned forward.  Keeping her hands clasped behind her back, she pecked John on either cheek and slowly dipped towards her mouth, leaving one lingering kiss before darting back up and returning to Alex’s feet.

John’s heart hammered.  She lifted her fingertips to her tingling mouth.  That took her back to uni days -drunk kisses and giggly dares.  When she caught Alex’s proud smile, she swallowed a gulp of her burning drink and tried to return it without looking too horrified.  

Sex club was definitely being added to the list of places that were out of her depth.  That, Currys on Black Friday, and any cafe that offered more than two coffee options: hot or tea.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” Alex brushed her fingertips over Beth’s shoulder and Beth visually shuddered.  

“Very,” John said agreeably, her gaze darting down to Sherlock, wondering how much longer they would need to make polite conversation, for fear of it becoming _extra_ polite again.  The chubby man was still at the bar, losing his attempts at flirting based on the way the girl kept recoiling.  If John knew what info they were after she could be helping Sherlock instead of awkwardly catching some guy fingering his mate’s arse in her peripheral.  

Martin probably would not mind the chaste kisses -especially since Beth was decidedly female- but John had a feeling she was going to leave it out anyway, along with the blow jobs and gay fingering.  There was no need to invite comments.

“Do you have yours well trained then?” Alex asked.

John shook her thoughts away and turned back to Alex.  The girl looked pleasant enough, not at all put off by John staring at the others in the room.  She supposed she looked like anyone else at the club to Alex.  Sherlock did say to fit in.  

“She’s…” John trailed off, her hand instinctively reaching out towards Sherlock’s shoulder.   It felt a bit odd, speaking for Sherlock.  Sherlock had no problem opening her mouth and saying whatever was on her mind at any given time.  Sherlock without a voice felt wrong.  “She’s...” Then, unbidden, John remembered the rotting toes currently left out on the kitchen counter and the mouse hearts floating in ice water in the fridge -even though John had asked for basic sanitation at least one hundred and sixty two times.  “In training,” she ended, loving the way Sherlock shifted in agitation at being referred to like some common house dog.  John pat the top of her head for good measure.  “She’s new to being told what to do.”

Alex nodded in understanding.  “She’s a switch.”

John’s mouth fell open and she tried to cover her silence with a drink and a nod, not understanding what was happening in the least.  Sherlock subtly elbowed her in the leg but John ignored it.  How was she supposed to know what to say?  A switch turned lights on and off.  What the hell did it have to do with anything?  If Sherlock wanted to throw her into these situations without warning, she would lay in the bed she made and like it.

“Do you normally Dom?” Alex asked innocently, as if they were sipping tea over breakfast and not ignoring the moans coming from the couch next over.  

Apparently that man was really good at fingering his mate.

John wanted to burst into laughter but managed to restrain herself.  “No.”

“Ah, I thought so,” Alex said and rushed to say, “No offense.  You just look a bit lost is all.”

“You could say that,” John let herself giggle.  

“You want me to show you some things?” Alex asked, gesturing behind her.  

John looked to see a wall of various… things, indeed, that she had not noticed before.  There was a paddle and a whip of some sort, and something that looked ominously sharp-

Sherlock elbowed her again, less subtly this time and John not-so-accidentally kicked her back, smiling at Alex.  “I would love that.”

“Great,” Alex beamed.  “Do you want me to use Sherly?”

John grinned down at Sherlock’s head in contemplation for far longer than suited Sherlock, if her wiggles were anything to go by, but as much as she would love to see retribution be had, they had a job to do.  

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable sharing, just yet.”  John threw her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for good measure, squeezing gently.  Sherlock pretended to fold into the touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.  John wanted to laugh at the noise but smiled instead, downing more of her drink.  

“That’s fine by me,” Alex said jovially and snapped her fingers.  

Beth was up in a second, spinning towards the center of the alcove floor and plopping back onto her heels, eyes never leaving her feet.  Alex stood up and set her drink down next to John as she contemplated the wall.  

“Are there any you fancy?” she asked John politely.

“Um,” John’s eyes roamed the selection, the gleam on the shining wood of the paddle catching her eyes.

Alex noticed and hummed, picking it up.  “Alright, love.”

John flushed again and her eyes darted to Sherlock.  She was still immobile but her fingers were twitching.  Already bored with observation it seemed.  

Alex’s clipped voice called to Beth.  “Dress.  Off.”

Beth clamored to oblige, practically ripping the zipper at her back in order to free herself of the thing, tossing it away from her and repositioning herself on her knees.  Her bralette was a delicate shade of lacey pink, not quite matching her sparkling purple pants, but the true distraction were her silver heels, barely clinging onto her feet.  

Alex pulled silk from her pocket and dangled the red fabric in front of Beth’s face, her wide eyes flashing up before returning to the ground, her shoulders twitching in excitement.  Alex immediately grabbed her by the jaw and forced her gaze upward.  Beth’s eyes were dark and open, never leaving her mistress’ face.  

“Two for flinching,” Alex ground out, flipping the paddle in her other hand.  “Five for any noises.”

Beth tried to nod and was promptly let go, her head falling to her chest, her cheeks painted freshly pink with red fingerprints and a light flush.  John shifted to the edge of the couch, dress be damned.  She could stand to show a little leg if the girl in the center of the floor was willing to be stripped to almost nothing for a bit of spanking.

That’s all it was, a bit of spanking.  Nothing to get so nervous about.

Alex smirked at John and turned back to Beth, running her fingers along the marks dotting her glowing jaw.  Beth tried very hard not to move but it was impossible for her fingers not to curl across her thighs.  Alex whispered something in her ear and it made Beth’s legs fall apart, her breath catching audibly.  

Alex whirled back towards John and said, “Be assertive, but not cruel.  Good behavior is rewarded.  Bad behavior-” She looked at Beth and smirked, then sank to her knees behind her partner.  She flipped the silk fabric over Beth’s eyes and pulled Beth’s head back, whispering into her ear.  “-is to be punished.”

John nodded, not sure how far this lesson was going to go.  They could call schoolgirl and her leash holder over to take notes.  

Beth’s toes curled in her wobbling heels to the point of pain.  One fell abruptly to the floor with a clatter.  Alex’s palm slapped against the paddle, causing both Beth and John to jump.  

Alex slowly pulled the fallen shoe from the ground and slid it up Beth’s flesh, digging in the heel well enough to scratch, but not enough to bleed.  One long line of raised skin blossomed over every curve of muscle.  Beth’s mouth fell open, the fabric across her eyes moving as her brow furrowed.  

“That’s four for flinching, pet.”  

John closed her mouth and licked her lips, daring to look down at Sherlock, who was just as immobile as before.  She wondered if this was what she was supposed to do, if she was feigning enough interest or if the grip on her half empty glass revealed she wanted more alcohol before watching this.  

Alex quickly grabbed her attention by slapping the paddle again and commanding Beth to get on her hands and knees.  The girl looked completely debauched already in the dim golden glow of the lights above.  Sweat collected at her shoulders, her hair a mess in front of her face, her entire body shaking, her last shoe barely clinging on.  

Nothing’s happened yet, John thought.  Is she really that turned on already?

A puff of air pushed Beth’s blonde locks away from her face as Alex’s nail traced up her spine, up her neck, until she had her hair in a fist.  She jerked Beth’s face up and her body arched with the contact, a moan escaping her lips.  

“That’s four for flinching, five for the noise.  Why don’t we round it up to an even ten?  What do you say, pet?”

Beth’s lips moved without sound at first.  It took Alex’s hand pulling at her hair again before she said, “Yes, ma’am, please.”

Alex smiled and soothed her hand through the platinum locks, draping them gently across her neck.  “Keep your hair out of your face.  We want to show our guests how pretty you blush when you act like a slut.”

Beth’s face did blush, the red travelling all the way up from her chest and into her ears.  She shimmied her arse in the air, practically begging for Alex to continue.

Alex chuckled and stood, facing John.  “I love showing off my pretty slut, don’t I, pet?”

Beth gasped at the lude term, nodding without letting her head or hair fall.  “Yes, ma’am.”

John slipped further up the couch, tried to take another sip of her drink, but found it hard to hold onto.   Her blood pulsed and her thighs twitched -an echo of the arousal swimming through the air, pushing itself upon anyone occupying the building.  

“She loves it when I call her that.”  Alex smirked, proud.  “The only sound I want to hear is your counting.  Or we double your punishment.  Alright, pet?”

Beth nodded mutely.

The lesson seemed to end there.  At least, Alex stopped looking towards John and only paid attention to Beth.  

The paddle suddenly whooshed through the air and clapped against Beth’s arse, echoing in their small corner.  John tried to breathe her beating heart back under control, shifted her legs around, and ignored the way the dress was making her sweat.  

Beth called out a muted, “One,” and was rewarded with Alex’s hand slipping over her purple pants, pinching her thigh and murmuring praise.  Then the pants were pulled down, exposing two pink and white cheeks to the air, only a hint of dark curls hiding between her visible legs.  

John wondered if Sherlock would be impressed in any way that she deduced Beth was a bottle blonde.

The next few hits were in quick succession, barely giving Beth time to call out the numbers.  

John pushed at her bangs, stubbornly sticking to her face, and pulled at the edge of her dress, wondering if she could send Sherlock for another drink, or if leaving her side would break some unspoken rule.

Beth’s arms were trembling, but it only made Alex smile harder.  

“On your face, pet,” Alex said.  “So we can still see you.”

Arms contorted in ways arms normally do not bend so Beth could push her cheek against the dirty ground and present her pink arse to her Dom.  Alex pet her back and circled around her, slapping the paddle a few times to make them all jump in anticipation.

The final four hits were done randomly, slowly.  Beth almost gasped aloud at every one, only barely containing herself before she rumbled a low, “Ten.”

Alex dropped the paddle to the ground and slipped her hands up and down Beth’s legs, kissing her on each arse cheek before pulling her back up to a seated position.  Beth seemed beaten and lose, hardly able to keep herself upright, a blissful smile on her face.  Alex rubbed her arms and smoothed away her hair as she undid the tie, constantly telling her she did a good job.  

John pushed herself back onto her seat and fell a bit to the side, her calf sticking against Sherlock’s bare shoulder for a brief moment.  She took a second to dizzily wonder how much rum had been in her drink as Alex pulled Beth to the couch and demanded she climb into her lap.  

The small group of people that had gathered to watch dissipated for more interesting endeavors.

John had not even noticed them.

It was a bit of a stumble but Beth pulled herself up and slumped with her face in the crook of Alex’s neck, nippling lazily at the skin there.  John licked her lips and looked at Sherlock, wondering if they should take their leave before things became even more inappropriate, but Alex spoke before she could.  

“She is my good girl,” she cooed, cuddling Beth tight.  “There is no other like her.”

“I’ll bet,” John said, clearing her throat and biting her lip.  

John looked at her empty glass and uncrossed her legs, pulling at where the dress stuck to her thighs, wanting to fan away the stickiness of the sweat and the butterflies in her tipsy stomach.  

Sherlock perked up the moment John’s heels shifted and said, “Mistress?”

John’s brain stumbled a moment, her eyes blinking heavily before she realized Sherlock was addressing her.  She supposed it was better than ma’am.  “Yes?”

“May I use the lav, please?”

“You don’t-” John was going to finish that with ‘need to ask me’ but caught herself in time.  “Ah- Yes.  Excuse us, ladies.”

“Maybe we’ll see you again some time,” Alex smiled and rubbed her hands over Beth’s back, dipping her fingers under her bralette and down her stomach.  “We’ve been here a while and I think I need to take this one home.”

John smiled politely, waved, and led the way to the toilets.  

The minute they entered, Sherlock tugged John by the arm into the handicap.  Then she contorted her arms and started pulling at the ties behind her back.  

“You are full of surprises, John Watson.” Sherlock tugged fruitlessly at the sole metal clip holding the top in place and turned her back to John, motioning for her to unclasp it for her.  “With you being Captain and Mark being so much of-”

“Martin,” John muttered automatically, undoing the clasp.  

“-a pushover, I always assumed it was you.”  Sherlock shimmied out of the rest of her dress, shaking her head and undoing her necklace.  “But now I see.”

John spun around before catching any sight of naked Sherlock but the stall door let off a shiny metallic reflection so she turned to the brown tiled wall instead.  She felt like a drunk chicken with its head cut off.  Maybe toast for dinner really was a horrid idea.

“See what?”  John asked, thinking she must be especially slow.  

Sherlock tapped John’s shoulder and gracefully bent over in her form fitting, matching, violet lace panties and bra to detach shoe from fabric.  Seriously, did all of Sherlock’s underthings match?  John had trouble finding a matching pair of socks half the time with the way her laundry disappeared.  

Sherlock handed her dress and necklace over.  “Put them on.”

John slowly took them, “Why-”

“We’re switching.”  Sherlock pushed John around again and undid the zip on her dress, sliding it over her head, not caring about unleashing John’s bare breasts to the world or John’s jump at Sherlock’s fingers accidentally grazing side boob.  “I’m the Dom, you’re the sub.”

John shook her head and nearly tripped trying to step into the floral dress in her strappy heels while covering her tits.  “Bored of me telling you what to do already?”

“You barely told me to do a thing,” Sherlock said, tossing the tight pleather dress on like it were an old t-shirt -not caring that it rode so high, arse cheeks were about to poke out.  “You are rubbish at it.  I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

“See what?” John asked again dumbly, pulling Sherlock’s floral dress over her breasts and adjusting as she went.  At least she could breathe in this one.  The shoes were all wrong but there was no helping the fact that they had severely different feet.  

The halter top meant her scar would be on full view but she was long past the days of ever trying to hide it.  It was well earned after all and she learned to brush off questions she did not feel like answering.  Clothing for women always tended to cut in a way that exposed at least part of it.

“You are going to do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you.”  Sherlock spun John around and grabbed the necklace, clasping it into place in a matter of seconds.  

“Like normal?” John asked wryly, a bit dizzy.

“Only this time, I won’t be asking.”

John chuckled.  “You ask normally?”

“You could always refuse,” Sherlock said simply, as if it would actually be that easy.  “But not tonight.  Tonight, you do what I say.  Call me either miss or mistress.”  

“Um-” John nodded dumbly.  “Okay.”

“Do you want a name?  You responded when that woman called hers a pretty slut.”

John nearly tripped in her heels, again, falling into the stall door to check through the crack to see if anyone were out there listening.  “What?” she hissed.

Sherlock gave her the stare that meant she was deducing at lightning speed -eyes snapping left and right and up and down, cracking down every barrier- and smiled slowly.  “Interesting.  Humiliation.  I see.”

“Humiliation?”

“It turns you on.  Keep up, John.”

“I am not turned on by humil-”

“How about I call you my beautiful bitch?  Tasty tart.  Exquisite exploit.  Gorgeous golden girl.”  She frowned.  “No alliteration.  Ravishing, sexy, foxy, oh!” she stepped into John’s space and pushed her against the door with one perfectly manicured nail, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “You are my lovely little whore, aren’t you, John Watson?”

John’s eyes widened and she gulped, her mouth snapping shut.  Clearly this night was getting away from her.  She fixed her sticking bangs again and cleared her throat.  

“Just get me a drink, Sherlock,” she said and pushed her way out of the stall.

Sherlock grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back sharply, catching her before she could trip in her damn heels again.  “Rules reversed, John,” she muttered directly into her ear.  “I lead, you follow.”

John bowed mockingly and growled, “After you, miss.”

Sherlock looked at her as if she were calculating the number of ways she could tear apart John’s favorite jumper, thread by thread, when she suddenly hooked a finger under John’s choker and tugged.  

Air was easy to obtain but the lace cut into John’s neck.  Sherlock was close enough to make her vision blur, staring down at her with an edge to her small smile.

“Be good for me, John.”  She crooked her finger tighter, nearly colliding their noses.  “Good girls get rewarded.  Bad girls get punished.”

Sherlock let go and John was left to stare, wide eyed, at the empty space, thinking of nothing but the sound of a wooden paddle smacking a nearly bare arse.  Surely, she wouldn’t be thinking about making John do any of that.

“I’m not wearing a bra,” John needlessly remarked, but Sherlock was already gone.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had not realized I named John’s SO Martin until three months after I wrote this. It was too late, you guys. I’m so sorry hahahaha


	2. Cheeky

John found Sherlock right next to the bar, impatiently tapping her flats against the floor.  John approached her, with her head down -as all the other little subs were doing- and waited.  

“Behind me, Joan,” Sherlock drawled, her eyes flying over the room.  “We are not equals here.”

John took a step back so she was no longer level with Sherlock’s shoulders.  Which was absolutely ridiculous. 

“Good gir-” Suddenly, Sherlock’s head snapped to the left and she turned, adjusting her cleavage in her new dress and clipped, “Get us drinks, pet.”

John shook her head softly.  Like a dog indeed.  

Sherlock bolted for the other side of the club, swaying her hips as if she owned the place.  She definitely should have been the Dom to start with.  It looked much more authentic than when she was trying to cow down in her sub persona.  Between ego, personality, and beauty, Sherlock could fill the English Channel and charm the sailors too.

The bar was crowded and it took more than a few minutes to get Sherlock wine and whiskey for herself.  Bad guy be damned, John needed a stronger drink to get her through this night.  Besides, he did not look like the running type. 

Thinking of their bad guy, John tried to find him, rolling her eyes when she saw Sherlock grabbing his full attention, gesturing at her.  Of course, where else would Sherlock be but next to the crazy probable murderer?  

John shuffled over with their drinks and handed the wine to Sherlock, swigging a large gulp of whiskey.  Suddenly, her drink was snatched away and the back of her hand was beating red from where Sherlock slapped her.  

“You forget yourself, my dear,” Sherlock warned, sipping at John’s drink, and doing a fine job of pretending she actually enjoyed that type of whiskey, downing the entire glass.  

John bit her cheek and clenched her fist.  There was no point in punching Sherlock in her pretty, bruisable jaw.  It was for a case.  For a case.  All for a case.

“No more drinks for you tonight.”  Sherlock turned to the bearded bad guy and put on quite the mockery of an apology on John’s behalf.  “I apologize for her.  I’m still breaking her in.”

Sherlock?  Apologizing for her?  Did they suddenly enter an alternate reality?

The man nodded in understanding, looking John up and down, tutting.  “She is a fine little slave.  Let me know if you need any assistance.”

John ground her teeth together, resolutely staring at the floor.  Little slave?  Give her five minutes alone with this moron in the alley and she would show him who the little slave really was. His face was not so pretty, but it was bruisable.

Sherlock turned up her charm, batting her eyelashes and pushing her breasts forward.  And she wanted to call  _ John _ a tasty tart?  

“That would be fantastic.”  Sherlock laid a delicate hand on the man’s shoulder, turning towards John.  “I’m afraid I’m not quite ready to share her, but if you would come into the alcove, I’m sure we can think of something.” 

The two turned around, whispering conspiratorially, while John was left to stare at their backs and mutter, “Bloody hell.” 

The two were already sitting by the time she reached them, talking about when Sherly acquired Joan and how long they have been together.  Clearly, John was not needed for a conversation of lies about herself, so she ignored them and stood, not sure what she was supposed to do.  Sherlock told her to learn from Alex and Beth, but Beth did literally everything Alex asked only when she commanded it.  She just waited in between commands, holding the same position.  

“How rude of me,” Sherlock’s voice cut through her thoughts.  “Sit.”

John’s knees bent automatically and she almost collided with the leather, but remembered her role in time, and sunk to the floor, heels pressing against the maroon backing under the couch.  

Sherlock’s fingers threaded through her bangs, pulling them out of her eyes and sending tingles over her heated face.  Yes, John appreciated the ability to see, but it still felt like she was being pet just to shut her up.  

“Oh, yes, very new,” the man said.  He reached forward with five grubby fingers and John leaned as far away as she could.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock said and nudged her with her flat.  “He can touch.”

John glared at the man as he grabbed her by the chin and tossed her head this way and that.  

“She has defiance in her,” the man said, tisking again.  

“Not with me,” Sherlock assured and the man released John.  “She always listens to me.” Sherlock smirked down at her and brushed her bangs away again, almost lovingly, clearly playing up the sap for the sake of the con.  “She doesn’t play nice with others.”  

John resisted the urge to smile at that, recalling the screaming match she had with Anderson the other week over the definition of medical degree.  The truth was the truth.  

“Too bad,” the man said.  “I was hoping for a dance.”

Sherlock’s glittering eyes snapped to John.  Dread filled John’s chest and she begged with every muscle her eyes had access to.  Her pleas were disregarded as Sherlock smiled evilly and cheerfully ordered, “Dance for us, ma chérie!”

John put as much venom into her blink as could be reasonably asked.  Her feet stumbled as she lifted herself up and she cursed her choice of shoe again.  

It was not the dancing.  John could dance with the rest of them and best a few, but it was one thing to dance with a partner on a dance floor, and an entirely embarrassing thing to dance by herself in a nearly empty alcove, eyes coming from every direction waiting for a show to gather around.  

The man was staring at her like she were some piece of meat to be gobbled up at his liking, and John cringed away, turning to Sherlock.  She smiled, knowing probably every thought that flittered across her very readable mind.  John narrowed her eyes and Sherlock raised an eyebrow in challenge.  

Fine, John mentally sent back.  But she would be getting her back for this. 

Now that she paid attention to it, the music sounded like someone tried to push the rhythm of salsa into the bass and drop of the modern electronic club music.  The beats were almost amplified by the groans and grunts that sounded in time around them.  It would not be John’s pick for public dancing, but she could make it work. 

Next time, she would need to knock on wood after thinking she would not be stripping if Sherlock asked.  

John closed her eyes and soaked up the beat, her hips slowly rocking and her shoulders swaying.  Sherlock raised the other eyebrow and smirked, crossing her legs and raising her wine glass.  Cheeky.  

The music crescendoed and John accommodated, rolling her hips faster and puffing out her chest, stabilizing herself as she dipped to the floor.  It took a few thrusts to shove herself back to her feet but she was nearly graceful when doing it, subtly throwing Sherlock the bird as she spun around.  Sherlock could not contain her smile at that, shaking her head in mock disappointment.  

They were both distracted from their fun when the man rose and crept towards John, grabbing her hips, and placing himself behind her in the uncomfortable way men always assumed girls wanted them to.  As if girls were there for nothing more than to be a post for them to rut against until they came in their pants like barbarians.  

John’s face truly showed disgust as she kept her body fluid but stopped her dancing, only moving as much as he made her.  She turned to beg for Sherlock, but the woman was already glaring daggers at the man, a look filled with so much cold fury, it was hard to believe he was still left unfrozen. 

Deliberately, Sherlock placed her wine glass on the ground and snapped upright.  Even in her flats and John in heels she still seemed to tower over them both.  She prowled to the pair and reached for John.  John grabbed her hands like a lifeline and yelped when Sherlock pulled roughly, spinning her so Sherlock was the one behind her, elegant hands curving around her hips and lanky body swaying with the beat.  

The man seemed confused about his role and simply stood by, licking his lips.  

Sherlock growled in John’s ear and moved her hands up and down John’s arms, spinning her around so they were chest to chest, taking a few steps with the music before turning them in place, spinning around the man.  

Right, Sherlock knew ballroom.  Oh, John was going to make her pay double time if they suddenly broke out into a full dance number. 

Instead, Sherlock spun them around again, coming up on the other side of the man.  Lost on his own, he walked back to the couch and picked up his drink, adjusting himself in his pants without a care in the world.   

Sherlock continued to rotate and sway, her arms curling around John’s sides, pulling her close.  The sides of their dresses caught as Sherlock did legwork and John dipped her back, confident in their ability to hold each other up.  Thigh rubbed against exposed thigh and hands grasped at skin as they moved and slipped and slid.   Hearts racing, sweat beading, John could not help the smile.  Then she and Sherlock dipped back simultaneously, a hand each around the other’s waist to keep them from a concussion, in perfect balanced harmony, and she broke out in a full blown adrenaline induced laugh.  Sherlock smiled wide and wrapped her up again.

In their spins they missed the small group of people that had gathered, cheering them on as the beat sped towards a crescendo to a finish.  A wink was all the warning John had before Sherlock grabbed her close and spun her out, forcing her to turn at least three times before she caught her.

Well, as far as dance numbers went, that was not half bad.  And in heels from hell too.

When the song ended, they were both out of breath and smiling like loons, resting their foreheads together while they failed to get under control.  It was nice to see Sherlock found that just as fun as she had.  It almost made her want to go clubbing with the girl.  At an actual club, not a sex club.  Though, this almost made up for the sex club thing.  Almost.

It took a full minute before they recalled their purpose and retreated to the couch, Sherlock sitting first and John standing by. 

“On my lap, prima,” Sherlock tapped her thighs and waited.  

John hesitated, wanting to sit down and rest her thumping legs, but knowing she was much more compact than Sherlock’s skin-and-bones self.  Still, with company and their personas, it would not make sense to voice her thoughts, so she sat as far away from the man as possible while still resting between Sherlock’s thighs, her head pillowed against the couch next to Sherlock’s damp curls.  

Sherlock shifted and laid her cheek against John’s, pressing her ruby lips against her ear, rapidly whispering, all laughter gone, “I need you to grab his phone.  He moved it while you were dancing to his other pocket.  I need it to prove he made the wire transfer for the assassin.”

John shifted, her eyes peeking over Sherlock’s head to see the man now gawking at Sherlock, her dress riding up all the way to her arse.  John gracefully curled closer and hid anything the man may have wanted to see with her calves. 

Sherlock squeezed her gently and ran a hand over her exposed arm, adding, “What if I told you he snapped a photo of you dancing?”

John pulled back, “He-”

“Did.”  Sherlock squeezed tighter, warning her not to lose character.  “Just as Beth did to you.  Grab the phone.  Right pocket front.  Already nearly falling out.  We’ve practiced pick pocketing.  It will be easy.”  Sherlock pushed John away and she stumbled to her feet.  Sherlock slid a nail over the back of John’s hand and batted her eyes, flirty once again.   “Go on, my lovely whore.  Thank your partner for the dance.  Be  _ extra polite  _ about it.”

John approached the man as if he were about to pull her teeth out with one of his beard hairs.  She stepped up to his feet and had a hard time looking away from the curly red bristles, littered with what looked like sandwich crumbs.  

“You have a wonderful body, little slave.” The man continued to leer and gestured with open arms for her to come closer.  “Come thank daddy for the dance.”

John had to swallow the bile in her throat down and hold her breath as she pecked him on each cheek, hesitating before going in for those lips, hair jabbing her in the chin and nose.  He was all too eager and gripped her face, shoving his tongue into her mouth.   

With open eyes she could see the phone gleaming and knew, and regretted, what she had to do.  She pushed him down, ignoring the way his tongue tasted of burrito sauce, and slipped her leg between his, pushing against the bulge in his trousers.  He jumped and she snatched the phone away, pulled back quickly, putting as much space as she could between them, and stumbled towards Sherlock with the phone clasped in her hands behind her back.   

Sherlock tugged her back into her lap and grabbed the phone, pulled it between them and slid it between John’s breasts, petting her hand across her chest and over her arms.  “You are perfect, aren’t you?”  

John froze, her eyes wide.  What part of  _ not wearing a bra _ did Sherlock forget?  Yes, they were bigger than her companions but not big enough to stabilize other objects!  

The moment John moved, the phone started to slide.  Sherlock’s eyes caught the slip and she cupped John’s breasts with both hands, pushing them together.  Their breath caught and they stared wide eyed at one another, Sherlock’s hands frozen in place.

“Right, then,” Sherlock said, pushing their foreheads together, her hand trying to manipulate the phone into staying, her thumb repeatedly flicking over her nipple.  Whether that was for authenticity or by mistake was completely unimportant because who cared about a hardening nipple when that phone was already dipping past underboob? 

Sherlock hissed, “I think it’s time I brought you home.” 

“Already?” The man huffed, practically breathing down Sherlock’s neck.  Sherlock stopped moving the phone and crowded possessively over John, pulling her onto the other side of her on the couch.  

The phone slipped straight to John’s stomach, resting at her lower belly.  Sherlock’s eyes went wider and her hand dropped to it.  The man grunted his approval and Sherlock cursed silently, looking up at John with an expression John did not like one bit.

Sherlock’s hand slowly slipped down to John’s waist and gently tucked under her dress.  Fingertips trailed up her thigh, far too far up her thigh, up over her knickers until they tickled her stomach.  John’s eyebrows rose exponentially, her mouth opening to swear or yell or both when the man closed his eyes and groaned, opening his fly.  

The phone glided against John’s skin as Sherlock flipped it and quickly stuck it into her knickers, warm skin and cool glass brushing against her mons, making her hiss and her back arch.  

“Let’s go, Joan!” Sherlock demanded, ripped her hand away, pulled them both to their feet and practically ran from the alcove.  

The man opened his eyes to find them dashing off, disappointment clear on his face.  John flipped him two fingers behind Sherlock’s back, nearly tripping and needing to lean on Sherlock until they were out of the club.  

When they were safely three blocks away and hidden in an alley, they both buckled under the weight of their laughter and the beating of their hearts, adjusting their windswept hair and falling dresses.  John fumbled trying to get the phone out of her knickers while crouching behind a skip and handed it off to Sherlock who wiped it on her dress before clasping it in both hands and easily cracking whatever information she required.  

“Call Lestrade, John,” she said triumphantly, holding up the device.  “We have our murderer.”

“With what phone?” John asked, still chuckling.  

Sherlock looked at the phone in her hand to which John shook her head.  They met the DI at a pay phone that was “ _ only _ ten blocks away” because “they do still exist you know”.  

“Might look ridiculous but you have to admit it would be practical,” John muttered. 

“Don’t say it.”

“Bum.  Bag.”

Lestrade clearly had a few choice questions for the two of them, but wisely kept them to himself, allowing them to return home and fill out paperwork in the morning.  

John instantly darted to the bathroom and immediately started brushing the taste of greasy mexican food from her mouth, all while cursing Sherlock with word combinations that even the American marines she bunked with would be proud of.  

“It was one kiss for the greater good.  There is no need to be so dramatic about it.  We removed yet another murderer and rapist from the good streets of London.”

John stopped brushing immediately and spat into the sink.  “He was a rapist too?!”

“Obviously,” she muttered.  “His etiquette was all wrong.  He never once asked me if he could touch or approach you.”

“You could tell he was a rapist because he was rude?”  John started pulling pins from her aching head, throwing them in the bowl on the sink.

“If it weren’t for his handmade shoes and silver chain necklace, I would have been able to tell simply by the way he looked at you.”  Sherlock visually shuttered, stripped out of her dress and grabbed her dressing gown.  “Vile man.”

“I would love nothing more than to hear how you locked a man away by his shoes, necklace, and phone, but I seriously need to shower.”  John physically pushed her out of the bathroom and shut the door.  

Sherlock called through the lock.  “Prints.  Allergy.   And obviously the bank account John, do keep up.”

John’s phone was waiting for her on the toilet, a new message from Martin, checking in.  Of course, she would not tell him she left her phone at home, for fear of another lecture about safety.  

She texted quickly, realizing it was 2am and the man was probably long asleep.   _ Home.  Another creep in jail.  See you tomorrow.  Love you. -J _

The water was steaming hot when she climbed in and plugged the drain so her aching feet could soak.  It would take at least seven showers a day to get that man’s funky odor off of her.  Sherlock owed her new perfume for this.  The expensive kind.  And not on her brother’s card. 


	3. Joan

John supposed she could burn it in acid.  Sherlock would know exactly the right kind.  Maybe they could chemically melt it down and form it into a ball and then send that ball off in a rocket-like explosion.  Homemade fireworks could not be _that_ hard.  Sparks flew in their kitchen all the time.  

Then again, a good old burning was always appreciated.  Or a drowning.  Drownings were a bit more messy but she could really draw out watching evil dissolve into nothingness over the course of the day.

“Are you trying to murder the paperwork again?”  Danny, the receptionist, called from the door.  

Paperwork always brought out John’s darkest thoughts.  She loathed it more than anything else in the world.  It was not soothing, repetitive, and calming.  It was boring, repetitive, and mundane.  Nothing brought her more agitation than boring stacks of boring paperwork. It was like Sherlock’s black mood curled around her psyche and dragged her to the toddler tantrum level of desperation for something else to do.  

John could make Sherlock do police paperwork half the time, since it would keep her her job.  What would it take to get her to do John’s?

A literal arm and leg.  At least.

“I’m feeling inspired by the witch trials,” John muttered at the manila folder open in front of her.

Danny chuckled.

“Oh no,” Martin’s voice called from the door.  “Must you be so barbaric, Joan?  Could you not contemplate death by electric chair at least?  Most of your paperwork must be electronic by now anyway.  Seems fitting.”

John looked up and smiled wide at the sight of all six feet of her boyfriend entering the room, carrying a bag from her favorite sandwich shop.   Even on the weekend he was still dressed for work -collared shirt and trousers- with his brown hair swept back and matching beard combed into place.  

“I was actually thinking of going in the opposite direction.  How did they kill in the BC era?”

Martin smiled back and took a seat across from her as she cleared some room.  “You mean BCE?  Hm.”  He adjusted his thin glasses and squinted his bright brown eyes at the wall.  “I think there was stoning.  Drawn and quartered, of course.  And I believe boiling in hot oil.”

“Ah, well, can’t go wrong with hot oil boiling can you?” John chuckled and bent over the desk to kiss him hello.  

Martin chuckled against her mouth and kissed her once more.  “Oil does have its uses.”

John rolled her eyes at his flirting and pulled her sandwich over, digging in.  “This is a nice surprise.”

“You stayed up late last night fighting crime.  Thought you might be hungry.”  Martin winked as he dipped into his own sandwich.  He seemed to think it amusing what she and Sherlock got up to.  There was no denying results but the blog did make everything seem a bit more entertaining.  

Romanticized nonsense, Sherlock said.  Apparently like all the other drivel John ingested through her novels.

“Starved,” John agreed happily.

“What did you get up to?”

John chewed her bite longer than necessary, deciding what was best censored midday in her office.  Danny did a wonderful job at the front desk, but he had a way of hearing the word club from across six lanes of traffic.  One sniff of it and he would be begging her for details for months.  “Dancing, actually.  Ballroom, in a sense.”

“Dancing?”  Maring leaned in and shook his shoulders, wiggling like a loon in his seat to an imaginary beat.  John nearly spat bread at him when she erupted into laughter.  “Was it as good as this?”

John burst out in another peal of chuckles and shook her head back and forth, searching for the water bottle she had set down somewhere behind the paper stacks.  “No!  No one is as good as that!”

Martin continued to shake back and forth near convulsing in his seat.

John managed to swallow a gulp of water and get her breath back but there was no removing the smile that had crept up to her eyes.  “You are ridiculous.”

“And yet you still love me.”  Martin finally stopped twitching long enough to get a bite of food for himself.

He was always like this.  Happy and carefree and comforting.  In John’s worst moments over the past few months, she had always been able to lean on him, whether it be her irritation at Sherlock or grief from a case or frustration at work.  No matter what, he never failed to put a smile on her face.  He was everything she always wanted.

“God help me, I do.”  

Martin smiled up at her and she could not resist planting a kiss on that mouth, full of food as it was.  To which, naturally, brought about a seated rendition of the electric slide.   

* * *

Another few days passed and the only cases available were apparently not worth Sherlock’s precious time.  

Nearly the entire stack of mail -bills and all- had been sacrificed into the kindling pile.  

“Dull!”

All emails had been metaphorically shredded.  

“Rubbish!”

The blog had a near-death experience, saved only by John wrestling Sherlock back into her armchair and throwing the closest blanket over her head.  

“Ridiculous.”

“You know,” John sighed over her cup of tea.  “It will take you five minutes to solve a three and Lestrade can move on to other important things.”  She gestured to the newspaper crumbled at Sherlock’s feet.  “‘1,000 Eggs Disappear From Coop, Replaced by Crystals’.  You wouldn’t even have to leave your precious seat.”

Sherlock scoffed and tossed the blanket to the floor, suffocating the ball of paper that mocked her very existence.  “Lestrade is not that wholly incompetent.”

John tilted her head to the side and smiled wide.  “I’m putting that on our Christmas card.  That is the nicest thing you have ever said about him.”

“Don’t blame me for my boredom, John.”  Sherlock flipped upside down in her chair and pulled at her short black locks, as if hoping she could grow Medusa’s snakes for experimentation’s sake.  “Speaking of boring, how was your date with Miguel?”

“Martin.”  John bit her lip.  She promised herself she would stop doing that.  If she continued to egg Sherlock on, it would never stop.  “We went-”

“For chinese food and a movie, yes I know.  I don’t know why I bother asking.”  Sherlock ruffled her hair and spun back up, dramatically laying across the arms of her chair and stretching.  A strip of skin pulled across her exposed stomach as she rocked her legs back and forth.  

John could not help smiling as she caught sight of a freshly shaved trail of dark hairs slipping down from Sherlock’s belly button.  For some reason, vanity was a trait that just suited Sherlock.  John would be sure to bring it up the next time Sherlock tried to defend herself after being caught staring in the mirror or the back of a spoon -if only for the opportunity to see Sherlock’s crumpled, confused face when she heard the term ‘Happy Trail’.  

Sherlock continued, “And then you went home to have boring vanilla sex because it has been three weeks since the last time you copulated and you felt like you owed it to him, even though you did not feel like having it.”  

John slammed her tea down and crossed her legs, shaking her head.  “It wasn’t-”

“What?” Sherlock asked lazily, voice cracking, still stretching out towards the fireplace.  “Boring, vanilla, or owed?”

“Any of that,” John spat out, grabbed her mug again and stared at the nearly empty bottom.  She instantly got up and went to make a fresh batch.  

“Really?” Sherlock drawled, spun around to a seated position, curled her legs beneath her, and squatted on the balls of her feet.   Her pose was complete when both hands slapped together under her chin.  “Then tell me, how did Monty-”

“Martin.”

“-thrill you?   Did he kiss you until he was out of breath?  Did he grab you and throw you against the wall?   Did he rip off your clothes like you were the most irresistible thing and he just had to have you now?   Did he demand you drop to your knees and service him?”

John reached for the tea leaves and wondered if it were too early for chamomile or if she should try that new cinnamon chai.  

Sherlock slunked towards her and collapsed into the kitchen chair, resting her elbow on the table and her cheek against her palm.  “Or did he kiss you sloppily, get his beard hairs in your nose -which I know you hate- and ignore the way you waited for it to be over?  Lucky you didn’t need to wait long.  It only lasted, three, maybe four minutes.  Missionary style.  Lights off.  Uncomfortable but tolerable.”

John chucked her mug on the countertop and glared at the tea leaves floating in the bottom.  When had they last washed all their mugs properly instead of just rinsing them out?  There were quite a few stains.

“You only get beard burn on your chin when you have sex with him.”  Sherlock relentlessly went on, dramatically flailing her hands about. “You’ve reached the point in your relationship where you only kiss hello, goodbye, and during sex.  If this is because you feel it is the right thing to do or so you can keep your eyes closed during the act, I haven’t yet determined.  As far as time, you took only a short break in replying to my texts.  Normally I would assume bathroom but the beard burn proves otherwise.”

John decided it was best to just get a new mug and wash it out with soap herself.

“Missionary because that’s the way he’s always liked it and you think it makes it more comfortable for you when you are not interested.  You are a doctor, you should know better.”

John made quick work of cleaning the new cup with a rag and threw some water into her used one.  There was no guarantee soaking a tea-stained mug would do much of anything, but it was worth a shot until she could get a better sponge.

“Also, your hair was teased on the back of your head only.  You were not attempting to style your hair that day, therefore unanticipated fluffing of the hair.  Lights off because why would you want them on?  And-”

John slammed the kettle under the water.   “Why are you suddenly so interested in my sex life?”  

Almost all right, as usual.  Also a bitch about it, as usual.

Sherlock’s plastered on, mocking smile fell back into her natural evil.  Even when John knew she was being poked, Sherlock could still crack her.  Somehow, John thought she could blame Mycroft for it.  Their verbal sibling equivalent of her and Harry’s hair pulling had to be disastrous.  Their poor mother.

Sherlock drummed her fingers against the tabletop and raised a single condescending eyebrow.   “Because now I know, John.”

“Know what?”

“What you want.”  She pushed away from the table and twirled into John’s personal space, using her entire height to crowd John against the sink.  “I observed you at the club, ma chérie.”

John ignored her and the sudden thump of her heart.  She slipped over to the stove and squinted at the tacky yellow goo clinging to the surface of their kettle.  “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Sherlock quickly disappeared, strode to the couch, and flopped onto it, her cocky smirk never leaving her smug face.  “Of course you don’t.”  

The chai tea brewed as John contemplated sneaking upstairs to read the book she had been waiting to finish.  It might be romantic dribble, but it had a surprisingly interesting plot. She turned for the stairs, disregarding Sherlock altogether, until that commanding voice rang her like a bloody mobile, “John, sit.”

John rolled her eyes, walked back into the room, and leaned over to look at the phone in Sherlock’s hand.  Perhaps Lestrade had texted.  “Case?”

Sherlock glanced her way and shook her head.  John waited for her to finish typing while impatiently tapping her fingers against the top of her steaming mug.  With a huff, she fell back into her seat and pulled out her phone.  Martin would appreciate knowing if she were about to go galavanting around the alleyways.  

“Come here,” Sherlock commanded.  

Never easy with her, was it?  Boredom led to game playing.  Which meant picking apart the dating life of John Watson and then making said John pick pens out of pockets five seconds later.  

John left the tea, walked to Sherlock’s side, and glanced at the phone as it faded to black.  “What-”

“John, kneel!”  Sherlock interrupted suddenly.  

Knees collided with the hard floor with a loud smack.  While ducking down, John threw an arm over Sherlock, calculated how long it would take to reach her gun from the floor, and started to scan the room for threats -when she caught Sherlock smirking.  

“So, it was the audience that held you back,” Sherlock murmured coquettishly.  She rolled out a graceless arm and scraped a sharp finger under John’s jaw.  “You’re only comfortable with me.”  

John pulled her head away and glared.  Nope.  Never easy.  “You’re testing me.”

“Good deduction.”  Sherlock pushed onto one elbow and leaned towards her.  

John did not mean it as a deduction, she meant it as a warning.  Not that Sherlock would listen.  

Calculating eyes deduced at lightning speed, up and down John’s hunched body.

“Well stop it,” John huffed and returned to her feet, shakily reached for her tea and swallowed a burning gulp.  She squinted the pain away without looking at her arse of a flatmate.  “I don’t know what you’re doing but I don't like it.”

Sherlock paused for a moment, frozen absolutely, like some forgotten statue of a warrior on the hunt, and then she smiled -too easily for John to think it was genuine.  “Alright.  I’ll drop it.”  In the same breath she said, “We haven’t played Gin in a while.”

John took her seat back and crossed her legs, leaning as far back as she could, refusing to rub at her bruised kneecaps, all while trying not to wring Sherlock’s neck.  There really should be some form of knightship or peace prize or something earned for living with Sherlock for more than a week.  “That’s because you count cards.”

“I won’t while drunk.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Not as well.”

John sighed and looked at the skull, the deck of cards hiding inside of it.  “You want to play Gin, Sherlock?”

“Why, yes, John.  What a lovely idea.  I’ll grab the good whiskey.”

"Honey?"

"Of course." 

* * *

 

John pinched the bridge of her nose.  “Not count cards my arse.”  

It was the sixth round and Sherlock had won every single hand.  

It was becoming more of a possibility that there would be a sacrifice to the burning flames that day.  Why keep the cards at all when there was a perfectly good fire burning right in the room?

“You’re only saying that because you’re drunk,” Sherlock teased, lifted her glass and took a small sip, crossing her legs under sheet-made-cape-made-dress.  She was always such a lady like that.  

John took a gulp and slurred, “I am not-” she lurched in her seat, caught herself on the arm and pushed back up, giggling, “Okay.”  

“Let’s switch games,” Sherlock cheered.

“Go fish?” John asked and laughed hard enough to send her into a coughing fit.  It was just so funny to picture Sherlock asking her to go fish!

“Truth or Dare,” Sherlock said with all the conviction of someone who planned during their hours of sobriety.

John squinted.  “Did you just say Truth or Dare?”

“I’ve never played.  I assumed you have since you were invited to sleepovers as a child.”

“Oh.  Um.”  It may have been the drink, but poor Sherlock.  Never having played Truth or Dare?  John pouted at the reminder that Sherlock had the most boring childhood ever -no cartoons? ever?- and nodded.  “Alright.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock beamed.  John smiled back.  “Truth or dare?”

“Mmmm, dare.”

Sherlock smirked and pointed towards John’s phone next to their discarded cards.  “I dare you to call Michael-”

“Martin.”

“-and break it off with him.”

John gasped dramatically as Sherlock burst into a fit of giggles.  “Sherlock!”

“Alright, you can text him.”

“Sherlock!”

“Fine!  Spoilsport.”  Sherlock sipped from her glass and smacked her lips.  “I dare you to-” she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small trinket, “-put this on.”

John reached for it.  It was the gothic lace choker with the ruby heart that Sherlock had worn at the sex club, and then made her wear.  She held it up and squinted at it.  “Seriously?  That’s it.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Alright,” John said and put it on.  “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“I knew you would.”  John shifted back into her chair and slipped onto the arm of it, cradling her head against the back.  “Do you actually know my boyfriend’s name and just refuse to say it?”

Sherlock rolled her eyes but otherwise did not move.

John gasped again at the not-denial-so-maybe and hurried to add, “What about Greg?”

“Who?”

John giggled.  “Never mind.  Your turn.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”  

Sherlock shifted in her sheet, spreading her legs in the most unladylike of fashions so she could lean in closer.  “What is your deepest, darkest sexual fantasy?”

John snorted up her drink and fell back into her seat coughing.  “I thought you already looked at my porn- ah- thing.”

“Yes, far more variety than I expected, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

John shifted again, nearly falling off the edge of her seat, but grasped Sherlock’s knee to keep herself from going over.  “Um.  Kinda personal, Holmes.”

Sherlock’s tongue poked between her teeth before quickly snaking back inside with a click.  “Is that not the point of the game?”

Sherlock did have a good point.  Genius, that one.

John took another sip of her drink and closed her eyes, playing with one of the blonde locks that swept far past her shoulders.  “I guess it’s me, obviously, and this, um, androgynous, um, person.  And-”

“Androgynous person?” Sherlock interrupted curiously.

“Yeah,” John shrugged and giggled again.  It was so strange to be saying it aloud when she rarely let herself acknowledge it with a hand between her thighs.  Deepest and darkest was not exactly her go-to.  “I’ve always had a thing for androgynous.  They’re so…”  A passing car threw lights up and around the room, attracting John’s very hyperactive attention.  The golden streams twinkled over the mirror and spread hazy geometric patterns over Sherlock’s curving cheeks.  “Pretty.”

One of Sherlock’s eyebrows raised.  “Yet, you’re with beer-belly, prickly chin Mitchell.”

“Martin!” John threw up her hands, a bit of whisky falling across her glass.  She licked the streams from her fingers and nodded.  “Don’t know why androgynous.  Maybe it’s the lack of beard and the eyeliner.  Guys look great in eyeliner.”

“To the point, John?”

“Right.  Um.  So, it’s me and that guy and he’s got me captive, right?”

“Like he’s a pirate and you’re his prisoner?” Sherlock slipped closer still, pulling her chair with her.  “You did say eyeliner.”

John snorted and fell the rest of the way to the floor between Sherlock’s spread thighs, shaking her head.  “That’s your fantasy, mate.  If you have them.  A part of me thinks you aren’t-”

“Back to your fantasy, John,” Sherlock looked down from above, all her attention drilling into John’s blushing face.  Her open legs seemed to trap John on the spot.  One move the the left or right and John’s cheek grazed smooth inner thigh.  Not to mention the direct view of knickers peeking out from behind the sheet, peeling back from leg and exposing the smallest hint of parts previously private.  The lace fabric revealed there were other parts of Sherlock shaved for vanity’s sake too.  

“Right.”  John swallowed and dropped her gaze to the floor.  “Uh- Well.  Well, he’s got me captive somehow-” She raised a single finger.  “-and not on a pirate ship.  I get seasick, I’m afraid.”  Her finger danced in the air as she mapped out her mystery man.  “And he’s attractive and charming and I have to do what he says or I’ll die, so he says.”

Sherlock pouted, squinting in the firelight.  “Stockholm syndrome?  That’s your fantasy?”  She threw up her hands as if someone threw some horrible mundane pair of socks at her head.  She bonelessly slumped back into her chair.  “Fuck him or die?”

“You did say dark!” John threw up her glass and spilled again, this time wiping up the mess on the floor with one of her socks, peeling it off and tossing it near the fire.  

Sherlock watched the very flammable sock fly and crawled across the floor to move it away from the flames, clutching her sheet under her neck.  “You need new books.”

“You need to pick truth or dare,” John said triumphantly.  

“Dare.”

John started giggling before she could even get the thought out.  “I dare- I dare you- to-”  She burst into laughter and grabbed Sherlock’s phone, opening the web browser.  Sherlock must have deduced what she was trying to do because she sloppily reached for the device, toppling forward.  

“No!” Sherlock yelped.

John held the phone away and quickly said, “I dare you to create a facebook page!”

Sherlock’s face went slack in horror, shaking back and forth.  “Don’t make me do that, John.  Please.  I implore you.”

John opened the registration page and held it out to Sherlock.  “Too late.  I dared you.  You have to do it!  And with a real profile this time too.  Nothing you can use to phish people with for a case.”

Shaking hands reached for the phone as Sherlock glared at the blue and white blocking.  “Do you realize how many morons are on social media?  How many will try and contact me?”

“Yes,” John grinned, knowing Sherlock would either delete the account or make her answer all the stupidity in the morning.  “But I dared you.”

Sherlock growled and slammed the info into the phone, throwing it towards John’s head when the login was completed.  “You are a horrible woman, Joan Hamish Watson.”

“You love it, Shelly Winifred Scarlet Holmes.”

There was a twinkle in Sherlock’s smirk as she chuckled, “Not even close.”

It was not fair.  John shared her middle name but in return she only got Sherlock’s initials.  At the moment, she could not remember the order but there were at least two Ss and a W.  She was pretty sure and pretty sure in her state was a guarantee.

“Well, I’m drunk,” John huffed.  “Now, give me a truth.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth slipped upwards, her legs tucking under her as she moved closer.  “Does Mark-”

“Martin.”

“-satisfy you sexually?”

John glared at Sherlock.  Was this sexual truth or dare?  Because if it was, Sherlock was in for a rude awakening on her next dare.

“I choose dare,” John said.

“I dare you to tell me if you are satisfied sexually.”

“That’s not how the game works, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pouted, threw her back against the leg of her chair and crossed her arms, her hair falling across half her face, her sheet slipping down bare arms.  “Fine.  I already have my answer anyway.”  She tossed her head to the side and started up a pout.  Always so dramatic.  “I dare you to change your facebook so that your sexual preference reads you are interested in both men and women.”

“How do you even know about that option?” John mumbled, grabbed for her phone, and contemplated if Martin would even see it.  It was ridiculous to think it would bother him if he did, but it sounded like something Martin would comment on.  Well, the man must have played truth or dare at some point in his life.  “Why?”

“Why would Matty-”

“Martin.”

“-care about the change, or why am I making you do this?”

“Why are you making me do this,” John clarified.

“Person,” Sherlock said simply, as if that made any sense.

John sighed and let it go, too drunk to care.  “You are playing this wrong.  Done.  Not that anyone will see unless they look.”

“What would you do if they did?”

“Huh?”  

An inability to understand Sherlock was nothing abnormal, but John was not sure that was English.  She shook her head and wondered if it were time for drinking some water.  She pushed to her feet and stumbled into the kitchen, looking for a clean glass or pitcher.  

“You are always so offended when we are mistaken for a couple, on the rare occasion it does happen.”  Sherlock pushed to her feet and barely stumbled at all when following her into the kitchen but her sheet did fall to the floor, leaving her in only her underthings.  Matching, again.  “You always clarify how you are very, very straight.”

“Well I am,” John said, tipping a large glass over, sniffing it, and turning to Sherlock.  “Is this clean?”

Sherlock shook her head and moved to help her search.  “Is it your name?”

Exposed hip bone brushed against forearm and John jumped back to lean against the sink.  “That does get confusing for people but they shouldn’t assume.  I’m straight and you’re not interested but people think you are.  Then I get called the man or butch or whatever and then you get called a lip-something or another.  You get enough as it is.”

Sherlock reached high in the cabinet and pulled down two dusty but unmarked and not burned pieces of glass and handed them to John to rinse.  “I admire your loyalty, John.  Above all else.  But I promise you, I can handle any assumptions myself.  I don’t care what people think.”

“Well I do.  You shouldn’t have to be with anyone,” John ground out, searching for the dish soap.  Did she not just have it two hours ago?

Sherlock handed it to her and sank against the counter.  Her physique was looking less sallow and more lean every day.  Stretched out like that with alabaster skin taut over flexing muscles, she almost looked healthy.  Good.

“I am aware you are not homophobic.  I simply ask because I’m curious.  Does your-” she sneered, “-boyfriend, have anything to do with it?”

John snorted.  “Please.  If you and I ever-” she flapped a hand around, “-he would get off on it.”

“And be immensely jealous.”

“He’s already jealous.”  John bit her tongue and froze, hot water running over her hands.  She had not meant to say that.  

Martin had never admitted it out loud but it was obvious.  Most of John’s exes had been jealous of Sherlock, more than one asking if they were to be expecting a threeway anytime soon.  Their relationship was mistaken more times than Sherlock knew about.  Martin was the one that stuck around, even beyond the threeway jokes.

Sherlock’s grin was victorious as she leaned over and turned the water to cold, tipping the cups into the stream and helping John finish up.  “Ever the soldier.  Protecting our relationship and your Max’s-”

“Martin.”

“-precious ego.”

“He doesn’t have a big ego,” John huffed around a large sip of water.

“He doesn’t have a big anything,” Sherlock muttered behind her glass.

John spit out her water into the sink, snorted, and shook her head.  Sherlock’s hand was on her back soon, pulling the hair from her face.  “I’m not throwing up,” John reassured her through giggles.  

“Well,” Sherlock laughed.  “There’s one truth I don’t need to ask.”

John let the feeling of mirth overwhelm her.  It was well beyond a reasonable hour for sleep for a woman her age and she was giggling like a schoolgirl over a boy’s cock with her half naked best friend and the taste of whiskey on her tongue.  She never thought she could have this warmth fill her again, not since joining the army.  Never did she see herself this happy and safe and carefree.  It was perfect.

“Whose turn is it?”  John moved back to the living room and sunk in front of her chair, too dizzy to think about climbing back into it.  

“Your turn to ask me.”  Sherlock sat beside her, returning to leaning against her own chair. “Truth.”

Sherlock must have sensed John was going to dare her to do something drastic.

John thought a moment and carefully considered something that plagued her.  A question so many people had asked her about her flatmate that she did not honestly know the answer to.  Sober John would never dare.  Drunk John opened her mouth and asked, “Are you really not interested?  In anyone?  I mean…”  She tapped the side of her glass as the rational side of her brain warned her to shut up.  “Are you- Are you asexual or is it medical or something?  Because- because that’s fine.  I just… just...”

Sherlock’s blank face stared into the fire.  “That’s too many questions.”

“Well, pick one.”

“No.”

“Wait, what do you mea-”

“Truth or dare?”  

John sighed.  Sherlock could be so difficult.  Either way, she did not want to talk about it.  Message received.  

“Truth.” John sipped more water and ignored the too warm feel of it.

“Have you ever had sex with a woman?”  

John sputtered and pushed away from the heat of the flames on her face.  “What would-”

“You have!” Sherlock jumped up, knocking some of her water over as she landed on her hands and knees, studying John’s face.  

John held up a hand.  “It was a threesome!”

“No it wasn’t!” Sherlock laughed, pinning her against the chair with a finger impaling her shoulder.  “There were four of you!”

John groaned, threw down her cup, and slammed her hands over her face.  

“Three Continents Watson!” Sherlock gasped.  “That’s where it comes from.  They were all from different continents!”

John shook her head back and forth, still astounded at Sherlock’s ability to uncover the truth, even when properly pissed.  “Yes!  Alright, yes!”

Sherlock cheered triumphantly and put her water down as she reached for the whiskey again.  “This calls for a celebration!”

“No!  No more!”  John grabbed the bottle from her, laughing.  “I don’t even know if you could count it as sex anyway.  With her it was mostly making out.  I did… stuff, with the other guys.”

“Oh, Watson,” Sherlock shook her head and smirked.  “You are a lovely little whore, aren’t you?”

John’s heart pounded and her eyes dropped to the floor.  She felt her breath coming in pants as she tried to regain her equilibrium.  The heat of the fire was messing with her head again.  

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped lightly, and moved until she was sitting directly in front of John, bare legs rubbing against blue jeans.  A single finger traced down John’s cheek and under her jaw, all the way to the choker necklace hanging above her collarbone.  Sherlock tugged at the lace and whispered, “Look at me.”

John lifted her head slowly, still trying to get her panting under control.

“Tell me,” Sherlock commanded.  “Does Mario not want to even try being dominant in the bedroom?”

John’s mouth was sticky and dry from the alcohol.  She reached for her water glass but had a hard time locating it.  She could not look away from Sherlock’s grey eyes as they pulled the answer out of her.  

Martin would not be widely described as the adventurous type.  He liked what he liked and change was not really an easy option.   When their sexual relationship had started to dwindle, Martin reassured her he was alright with it.  Frankly, John was too.  Except, having sex twice a month was not exactly normal, for her especially.  She had a healthy sex drive before, but age could slow something like that down.  Martin was not a teenager anymore and she was no longer at her peak, she supposed.  

Martin was the best man she could ever hope for, loving and kind, but physically…  He was an attractive man but he never seemed to heat her up, as it were.  She had been taking care of business herself more so recently, hence why Sherlock found her ‘variety’ of porn history.  

John had always had kinks, she knew this.  She did tend to click on BDSM related videos more often than she would like to admit, but she clicked on all kinds of videos.  From gay men, to women, to orgys, to straight.  But just as clicking on lesbian or solo female videos did not make her gay in any way, clicking on D/s videos did not make her want to become someone’s ‘little slave’.  

So, John had asked Martin to spice things up a bit, knowing what his reaction would likely be.  He was unfortunately predictable and could not keep a straight face when simply calling her a slag.  The entire night was a disaster that lead to no sex and a very uncomfortable apology with both slowly putting their clothes back on, each full of disappointment.  

They dropped the idea altogether, returning to the regular -as Sherlock loved to put it- vanilla sex that they were having.  If it only happened twice a month, that was fine.  In the long run, sex was the dessert, not the main dish.  If everything else was so fantastic, why give it up for something she could do with her own hands and a few toys?  

Martin and she had even joked about having an open relationship one day -his point being that they were already in one with John’s attention shared by Sherlock.  However, as willing as he was to hypothetically sleep with other women, he was less willing to picture John doing the same thing with men.  The subject was dropped yet again and had not been brought up for months.  

Sherlock probably knew most of this, having deduced it from texts that John pretended she did not read or from John’s porn sites alone.  When John looked at Sherlock, her finger still locked in the choker, she seemed to understand completely.  Whether that was the booze, Sherlock’s phenomenal acting, or actual truth, was hard to tell.  

John shook her head.

“I have a proposition,” Sherlock muttered.

John looked up, about to ask what the hell that meant, when Sherlock’s phone screeched.

The moment promptly fell to pieces.  

Sherlock bumped and stumbled to pick it up.  “What?!”  She flopped her back on the ground, her free hand covering her eyes, her legs spreading out everywhere, as if she were as liquid as the whiskey she consumed.  “Lestrade, what do you want?... Where?... Can’t.  Drunk…. Different addiction.  I’m not tempted to shoot up because of a few drinks!…. She’s drunk too…No.  Not good enough.  Call me when you have something better.”  Sherlock hung up and tossed the phone under the chair.  

“Was that a case?” John asked.

“Murder.  Attic.  Probable robbery.  Not even a three.”  Sherlock’s eyes closed, her hair cushioning her head as it fell to the side.  

Sherlock’s phone pinged again and John grumbled, climbing over Sherlock’s legs to reach it.  

_I can’t hold the body for you Sherlock.  -L_

John thought about texting back, knowing Sherlock would probably be rude if she responded herself, but Lestrade texted immediately.

_Call me when you’re sober.  I’ll see what I can do.  -L_

John turned the screen off and shoved it near Sherlock’s head, falling onto her friend’s exposed stomach in the process.  Her head would hurt like hell, but there was no way she was moving to bed now.  The fire was already dying out.  Sherlock’s belly was tiny but soft and squishy.  The shaved happy trail felt silky under her fingertips.

Everything would be fine in the morning.


	4. Ha-Ha

The sun was the devil incarnate and its sharp pitchfork rays dug into John’s eyeballs and pierced the back of her aching brain.  She jerked her head back, cursing the open window and the nausea that sprung from moving four inches.  Her head thunked to the ground and she swore aloud.  Her pillow had apparently become Sherlock’s thigh.  Hopefully she did not drool.  Her mouth was completely dry and tasted like hair.  She pulled her blonde locks away from her face and sputtered.  

Water.  She found it next to Sherlock’s head.  She was still out cold, not having moved since she crashed the night before.  The phone buzzed on the other side of her, vibrating against the wood.  John did not remember turning the sound down but decided she would not bother to look a gift horse in the mouth.  

She flicked the phone up and saw the caller ID read _ Do Not Answer, Joan!   _

“Hello?” John grumbled, sipped on her water and leaned her head against the side of the glass. 

“Good morning, Joan,” Mycroft answered, far too jovial for whatever ungodly hour it happened to be.  “I do hope you are not feeling too under the weather.” 

“Couldn’t be feeling better,” John gruffed.  “What do you want?”

Mycroft was unfazed.  “It seems the body of one Arnold M. Haywire has been moved.”

“Arnold who now?” John took another sip of water and promptly rested her head back across Sherlock’s stomach, ignoring Sherlock’s grumblings.  

“Ah,” Mycroft continued.  “I see.  You may have been too intoxicated to remember.  Sherlock received a call this morning from DI Lestrade about a-”

“Murder victim!” John flinched at how loud she yelped.

Sherlock muttered, “Shut up,” and rolled to her side, throwing John’s aching head to the floor once again.  

“Yes,” Mycroft said, his cocky little smirk heard loud and clear.   “Very good.  His body has been moved.”

“Alright,” John mumbled.  Sherlock’s arm was waving behind her, looking for something.  John pushed the glass of water at her until she took it.  “Thanks.”

“You misunderstand me.”  Mycroft was starting to lose his immeasurable political patience.  “I nor the DI authorized such a movement.  It seems we have a third, unknown player.”

John groaned.  She could only take so much melodrama on a regular basis, but for the love of god, not with a hangover.  “Not Moriarty, please.”

Sherlock perked up at the name, flopped to face John, and reached for the phone.  John handed it over, pillowed her arms and burrowed into the crook of her elbow. 

“Cakey,” Sherlock answered, not even bothering to elaborate the insult as usual.  “Text only.  Your voice will drive me to drastic self medicating measures.”  She slapped the phone on the ground and groaned.  John joined her.  

“What did we- did we post something on the blog last night?” John asked the floor. 

Sherlock mumbled and shoved John’s arm.  “Can’t.  Murder.  Priority.”

“Ugh,” John agreed. 

After a large helping of water for the two of them, painkillers, and forced slices of toast and butter, they made their way out the door while Sherlock checked her phone for the details and filled John in.  “Arnold Haywire.  Age 37.  Death by bullet through the head.”

“Someone could put one through my head, right now,” John grumbled over her to-go cup of coffee.  

Sherlock hummed in agreement.  “Found in the attic of a house owned by the Millers.”

“What makes this interesting?” John complained.  

“It wasn’t his house,” Sherlock huffed.  “Nor of a relative or friend.  Opposite side of town from his home.  Random house.”

“Robbery gone wrong?”

“Hm.”

John tossed her head back against the seat cushion of the taxi, closed her eyes, and willed her strong stomach to stay strong until they arrived.  

Lestrade was waiting for them at the house, his cynical smile promising hours of torturous pain.  “Good morning, sunshines.  Sleep well, did you?”

“Fuck off,” John grumbled.  

“We don’t work for you, Lestrade.”  Sherlock growled, her eyes taking in the suburban house and those neighboring it.   “We are allowed to get drunk when we want.”

“You may not work for me,” Lestrade said, louder than necessary.  “But I’m the only one that will work with you.  So how about canning the attitude and solving a murder, alright?”

Sherlock muttered something about donuts in Lestrade’s hair but John could not quite find it in herself to ask her to stop being rude.  If rude got them through this quicker, then may everyone cry that day.  

Lestrade looked at her oddly and then muttered, “Nice necklace,” around a smirk. 

John frowned and touched her neck.  There was something lacey there.  She reached back with one hand and undid the clasp to find the sex club choker dangling from her fingers.  How the hell did that get back around her neck?  And why the hell did Sherlock not say something before they left the flat?

She tucked it into her pocket and slowly made her way up the stairs.

The attic was just like any other attic, according to John.  There were old things and not so old things and cobwebs.  So many cobwebs.  She did not particularly like spiders after the incident with the camel spider and her pillowcase.  Given her mood, she could not promise not pulling out her illegal gun in front of all of the cops taking pictures.  The furry little things would probably make great target practice.  

The spiders.  Anderson was not on scene.  

“Here,” Lestrade pointed to the pool of blood glistening in the sunlight pouring out of the small windows.  There was a lot of it, some smeared towards the attic’s exit.  “We had a car on the street but no one saw anyone dragging the body out.  Everything else is the same.  Nothing missing.  The Millers were gone.  They left to stay with family yesterday.  We got their statements last night.”

“Useful as ever,” Sherlock huffed. 

Lestrade looked at John, waiting for her to say something, but she just lifted her coffee and sipped.  Sherlock poked her nose around the blood without much zest and quickly moved to the bloodied items surrounding the missing body.  

“Younger brunette woman is the killer.”  Sherlock spouted off facts in a huff, none of her usual grandiose available for show.  “Most likely an ex or a business partner.  Both. They work at a pawn shop.  Check the local area.”

“Brilliant,” John saluted without much gusto.

Sherlock smiled for the first time that morning, small but there.  “I haven’t even explained how-”

“Don’t care,” John said.  “You are amazing.  I already know it.  Don’t need to hear it now.”

“Later,” Sherlock agreed readily. 

Lestrade crossed his arms, looking annoyed and confused.  “Alright, I get the woman part because of the blood spatters and relation to height and probable relationship because of the location and statistics.”

“And the bracelet,” Sherlock mumbled, clearly pained.  “And the hair dye.  Even Anderson will be able to pick hairs out of blood.”

“We can only fucking hope,” John muttered into her cup.

Lestrade ignored them.  “But how do you know she and Haywire were together at a pawn shop?  And how are they related to the people living here?  The family said they didn’t know the guy at all.”  

“The chest,” Sherlock explained.  Lestrade’s gaze fell to her dipping, unbuttoned neckline and she huffed, “The treasure chest.”  She pointed to a box in the corner.  “The lock’s been cut.  Any valuables would have been in there.”

“So she committed murder and robbed the place.  How do you know she works for the pawn shop?”

“For the love of- Look!”  Sherlock gestured wildly, making John dizzy.  “There are things that are missing.  Not just the items from the lock box, but paintings and a picture frame.  Look at the dust, for god’s sake!  How would she know what was valuable and what was not?  Most would take what they could carry.  _She_ had a very keen eye.”

Lestrade huffed, “How do you know-”

“The bracelet!”  Sherlock grumbled and swept to the floor, coming up with a silver and black leather bracelet tucked between her shirt sleeve to prevent fingerprints.  “It was featured in the newspaper Thursday.  Last article on page seven?  Am I the only one that pays attention to anything?!”

John simply smiled and let her rant on.  Today was just not the day to argue. 

Lestrade looked to John with pleading eyes but clearly realized he was on his own.  He sighed.  “I see the bracelet.  I see it’s for a woman.  What else about it?”  

“It was won in an auction by a local pawn shop when they bid on a storage unit that was repossessed.  They sighted this bracelet as a rare find because of its antique value.  Why keep it when it could be sold for a large sum of money?  Our murderer and victim were obviously here for the items in the attic.  She continued to rob the Millers even after the gun went off.  Does that sound like someone desperate for cash to you?  She was not the one that decided to keep the bracelet.  She wanted the money.  It was a gift from someone else at the shop.  That would be Haywire, here with her for the items. That, plus the keen eye, equals pawn shop worker in a relationship with a co-worker.  I say ex because they no doubt fought over money and, oh, there is the fact that she shot him in the back of the skull!”

Everyone looked to the pool of blood on the floor.  

“You mean like Storage Wars?” John asked into the looming silence, and immediately regretted it. 

“What?!” Sherlock snapped. 

“It’s a TV show."  John shrugged.  "They buy units and pawn the stuff inside.”

Sherlock was aghast.  “What load of absolute pedestrian rubbish are you feeding to your poor deprived brain?  Is this something Morgan-”

“Martin.”

“-makes you watch?”

“Mrs. Hudson, actually,” John said.  “It's kind of like the one you liked with the-”

“John!”  Sherlock yelled, causing them both to flinch.  Right, that was supposed to be a secret.  Of course, John had already taken a photo of her watching daytime telly and sent it to Lestrade, but Sherlock did not need to know that. 

“Sorry,” John mumbled. 

“Family said nothing was taken,” Lestrade muttered, crossing his arms and looking around.  He was too used to Sherlock to be surprised by her outbursts and was skilled at returning to the task at hand.

“Then they are either lying or stupid,” Sherlock snapped.  “We can only pray you’ll be able to figure out which since I apparently have to provide the dead man’s CV when you have his name already.” 

“Maybe the dead body threw them off,” John suggested lightly.

“Right,” Lestrade huffed and turned back to Sherlock.  “You don’t remember the name of the pawn shop?” 

“Do I have to do everything?!” Sherlock cried and threw the bracelet at Lestrade’s face.  He was barely able to catch it in between his forearm and chest.  “It was only listed as a local shop. Anonymity for the sake of future bids.  Look it up yourself!”

“Okay, alright.  No need to fall into a strop.”  Lestrade held up his hands and pointed at the door.  “So who took the body and where is it?”

“At least two men were here.”  Sherlock held up a hand before Lestrade could ask a follow up.  “Footprints, DI.  Seriously.  Do I need to point out the actual bloody bloody footprints to you?”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed.   It was about then that John caught on to his small smirk as well.  

Sherlock could overestimate the stupidity of everyone around her on a daily basis but the DI had been working this case for hours and had the victim's name.  Of course he already knew the name of the pawn shop.  He probably already had a suspect in mind.  He did not need half these explanations.  

The closest copper snapping photos snorted behind their camera.  

John glared. 

This was payback for Sherlock hanging up on him.  Payback on them both. 

Bastard.

Sherlock threw up her hands, spun in a circle, and pointed to not-so-random spots of blood on the ground, “Shoe size, trainers, weight, build.  You can all do it yourself.  Obviously two men, one large, one not.  Find the body and we’ll find who took it.  Ask the family what was taken.  I’m not theorizing before all the data is collected.  Strap a collar on Donovan, get some sniffer dogs.  I’m not psychic!”

Sherlock pushed past them both and down the stairs, not bothering to wait for John to catch up.  

John was still scowling at Lestrade and muttered, "Greg."

Lestrade's smile broke free and he nodded once. "John."

The rest of the squad finally broke free in a large cacophony of chuckles and John marched out of the room.

Sherlock was at the end of the driveway, glaring.  

John looked between her and the curb and back again, “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock turned to her, eyes full of rage, as if John were gutting her for the answer with that simple question.  “The cab!”

“What about it?” 

“It’s gone!”

“Yes, I see that!”

“I told that idiot to wait!” 

John glared at the empty street and cursed.  When she turned back towards the house, Sherlock put a hand out and stopped her from taking a single step. 

“No,” Sherlock grumbled.  “I am not riding with one of them.  I’m calling a cab.”

John huffed and sat on the ground, clutching her coffee with both hands.  

“What-” Sherlock pulled her phone away and growled at it.  “The call won’t connect.”

“Maybe-”

“Maybe you should shut up.”  Sherlock started to pace and John shrugged.  Not the day. 

Within the minute, Sherlock’s phone pulsed.  Sherlock groaned again and sank next to John, stealing her coffee and sipping, her entire body crinkling with revulsion at the taste.  “Mycroft is coming.  Found the body.”

“Where?”  John happily took her coffee back, thanking god Sherlock did not throw it into the street. 

“Ha-Ha Road.” 

John blanched and spun to her.  “I’m sorry?”

“Moriarty has an odd sense of humor.  Sometimes I really hate her.”

“I always hate her.”

A black car spun up soon after and took them to Ha-Ha Road where the body of Arnold Haywire was found.  

The body in the grass told a very different story than the crime scene suggested.  The man was stripped to nothing, his chest mangled and his body defaced.  Moriarty’s goons had cut out the man’s heart and moved it into his hands across his chest, held together with a slender wooden stake that pierced straight through his body.  Decorating that stake was his penis, chopped off and tied against the wood with a shining red bow.  Across his chest in bright red lipstick, almost indistinguishable through the blood, read: _ I miss you!  _

“Looks like someone misses you,” John unhelpfully mumbled under her breath.  

All the people in Mycroft’s unit were giving them space, the lads a bit more than the rest when they saw the mutilation technique, even knowing it was post mortem.  

“I can get nothing from this and she knows it,” Sherlock huffed, toeing the man’s elbow with her shoe.  “She stripped all the important evidence.”

“She only wants to give you the message.”

“That she can make me dance, even on a day when I am extremely hungover,” Sherlock grunted and grabbed her temples, rubbing harshly.  

“Let’s go home,” John suggested.  “You saw all you needed to see.  We’ll figure it out when we feel better, alright?”

Sherlock kicked the dead man’s leg and sent the penis wiggling.  John stifled a smile and nudged the man’s foot back with her shoe.  She waved down the nearest of Mycroft’s workers and pushed Sherlock back to the black car to go home and hopefully nap for a year.  


	5. Experiment

“Something is missing!” Sherlock yelled for the seventh time since receiving a text from Lestrade the following day.  

A woman at Rocky's Pawn Shop confessed to murdering Arnold Haywire, her ex boyfriend, by shooting him once through the back of the head and taking the artwork they had showed up to collect.  Case closed. 

“Too easy!” Sherlock continued, kicking the furniture and tossing the papers and mail that John had just spent a half hour stacking.  “Why would Moriarty bother?!”

John had been wondering the same thing but kept that thought to herself.  She simply continued to brew the chamomile in peace, hiding behind the expensive science equipment.  

Sherlock had managed to topple over her leather chair and throw John’s pillow into the cold fireplace before John brought her her cup of tea and shoved her into the sofa.  

“I need more data!” Sherlock huffed and threw the cup on the ground, soft enough to prevent it from breaking but still sending tea flying everywhere. 

John sighed and sat in her chair, sipping at her own cup.  “Maybe this was her plan,” she suggested.  “Work you up over nothing so you get distracted.  Or maybe she’s bored enough for the small stuff.” She looked at the puddle oozing into the carpet and added, “You’re cleaning that up by the way.”

“Moriarty is-”  Sherlock grunted.  “She would not send me a dead body just to ‘work me up’.  It doesn’t make any sense!”

John’s phone pinged and she picked it up, frowning when she saw the text. 

_ Are we still going to have a pizza and movies tonight?  _

Right.  She had a date with Martin lined up.  She looked back up at Sherlock and shook her head at her phone. 

_ Sorry honey.  Sherlock’s not capable of being alone right now.  I’m afraid she’ll try something drastic.  Like fire. . . again.  Reschedule? - J _

Martin had enough of an opinion about Sherlock without her mentioning the whole Danger Night aspect.  Sherlock had already been scratching at the crook of her arm, one of her more obvious tells.  It meant the patches were peeling from overuse, not that she was itching for a fix.  Apparently that was an insult to the  _ competent drug users _ .  John was never going to willingly argue about the competency of drug users ever again.  

Martin replied right away. _  That’s fine.  I’ll just heat up something from the fridge then.  Give her a kiss from me. ;) _

John giggled and then froze, her face heating.  She had been having flashbacks all yesterday about their drunken night and feared she may have told Sherlock something about kissing a girl.  She could not remember in exactly what context though.  

“Really?” Sherlock raised her eyebrows and curled into her corner of the sofa, finally seeming to calm for at least a moment -which usually meant more trouble ahead.  “And on sex night?” 

“Sex night?” John asked, fingers tightening around her mug.  She reached for her laptop and pulled it into her lap, opening the screen, ready to type up her notes from yesterday.

“It’s not been three weeks but you’re about to menstrate."  Her hand glided through the air mockingly.  "You try to slip one in before that happens, for his sake.”

“I- What?”

Sherlock smirked and tossed her body back, stretched one leg out over the cushions and dropped the other to the ground.  “If you would rather have boring sex with your boyfriend than stay and help me figure out what game Moriarty is playing, don’t let me stop you.”

“And here we are, back on my sex life.”

“Indeed.”  Sherlock's mouth puckered, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt.

John decided to put a stop to that immediately.  “Do you think Moriarty knew we would be hung over?  Do you think there are cameras in here we missed?”

Sherlock waved her off.  “Checked.  She may have seen from the window, but we are still safe in our flat.”  She pulled herself up and slid towards John’s side of the room.  “Now, stop avoiding the topic.”

“I’m not,” John shrugged.  “You are the one who wanted to figure out Moriarty’s game.”

“And you are the who told me to drop it and pick it back up later.  That’s what I'm doing.  Dropping it.”

“And picking up my sex life.”

“That’s the idea.”

“That’s the… The what?”  John tossed her bangs out of her face.  “Wait.  No.  We were talking about Moriarty.”

“I never finished my proposition,” Sherlock said. 

“Proposition?”  John asked slowly, completely confused, “You’re propositioning me?” Propositioning really only had one definition in this context as far as she knew.  “But I’m… I’m in a relationship and not gay and you’re-”

“Not sex, John!” Sherlock huffed.  “What you’re missing!”

“Well, I’m clearly missing a lot because I don’t have a bloody clue what you’re on about!”

Sherlock sighed, took a moment to curse whiskey, and stepped toward her.  She propped her usual chair back up and brought it in close.  Then paused to milk the moment for every last bit of drama she could suck out of it.  “Domination.  You want someone to dominante you.”

“I do not want-”  John slowed to a stop, a crash of fuzzy memories overtaking her.  Truth or Dare.  They had played truth or dare while massively, horribly drunk.  Oh, that was not good.  Not good at all.  Sherlock has asked her if Martin was dominant and then grabbed her but the phone rang and there was something about a sock.  

Sherlock smiled and leaned forward, her finger retracing the earlier pattern and landing under John’s jaw, slipping down to where the choker used to be.  

John swallowed and backed into the chair, pushing into the cushions and pulling her laptop over her like body armour.  “What exactly are you suggesting, Sherlock?”

“No sex,” Sherlock hurried to clarify, nails gripping metal and leather.  She seemed to weigh the words in her mouth before she finally breathed them aloud.  “I want to be your Dom.”

John stared, her mouth falling open at some point because she needed to shut it to swallow and ask, “My Dom?”

Sherlock nodded.  “Here only.  No need to go back to that club.  You do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you, whenever we scene.”

“Whenever we what now?”

“Scene.”  Sherlock leaned back in her chair and tapped her fingers to a staccato beat.  “The time we play together.”

“So,” John shook her head, not sure she should be swimming in this conversation this sober, but sick enough from the last hangover to not want to repeat the mistake.  “This is a game?”

“If you want it to be,” Sherlock shrugged.  

“What do you want it to be?  What do you want from this- this-”  John shook her head, practically laughing.  “What even is this?”

“There is a part to you, John Watson, that I do not know.  A part that surprises me.  You, a Captain in the army, a woman of modern society, a doctor who craves war, partner to the smartest woman in London, wants something.  Something that she is not getting.  That is unacceptable.  I need to learn the what, when, why, where, and how you want this.” Those eyes roamed up and down, savoring in every spec they could gobble up, landing on John’s panicked blinks.  Sherlock’s obsessive gleam sparked, always starved for more.  She rolled her lips and practically growled, “I need to know everything.”

John shifted, clasped a hand back around the edge of her laptop, gripping it still at the point between open and shut.  Dumbfounded, she muttered, “You forgot who.”

Sherlock smirked.  “I already know who.  You want me to do it.  Mason-”

“Martin.”

“-was a disappointment in this.  I can make up for it.  I can give you exactly what you want.”

John bit her lip and scoffed.  This was absolutely mad.  “And what makes you think I want this?”

“You told me so.”

“When?”

“When we went to that club.”  Sherlock looked to the side and breathed, “Well, that and I recorded our drunken games on my phone.”

“You did what?!  Let me see-”

Sherlock held up a hand.  “Already deleted.”

John growled, “Why?”

“It’s here,” Sherlock pointed to her head -which was not the question John asked.  “Think about it John.  It’s a win-win situation.  I learn more about you and a subject you are interested in, one that might even relate to the Work.  You don’t cheat on your boyfriend but still spice up your life and play into one of your fantasies.  It may even help your relationship.”

John shivered at the word fantasies, thinking she should remember something about that but came up with nothing. 

“I saw you,” Sherlock continued.  “At the club.  You couldn’t take your eyes off Beth.”

“You told me not to!”

“I told you to ask for a demonstration and learn from the Dom.  You didn’t even look at her.  Your eyes were on Beth alone.  You moved when she moved, you panted when she did, you moaned when she moaned.  You wanted to be her.”

Echoes of that paddle sounded through John’s mind, Beth’s whispery counts sounding off in succession.  

John found her breath leaving her, her fingers clawing into the cushions of her chair.  A faint blush crawled up her neck and cheeks as she imagined herself bent over, her face on that floor, her voice calling out at every smack. 

John’s phone pinged. 

She shook herself from her thoughts and opened Martin’s message.   _ Let me know if you’re still hungover tomorrow.  I hear DTS can be cured with cuddles on the sofa.  xoxo _

John groaned and pulled the phone down, jumping when Sherlock appeared directly behind it, far closer than she had been a moment ago.  Sherlock snapped the laptop shut for her.

“He doesn’t get it,” Sherlock said, covered the phone and pushed it into John’s lap.  “I do.  I want to.”

John frowned and slipped her hands out from under Sherlock’s grip.  She flipped the blinking phone back and forth and glanced up at Sherlock’s hopeful scrutiny.  “No sex?” 

“No sex.”

How could someone Dom -and what a scary word that was- if there was no sexual gratification involved?  

Martin would be unhappy with it in any scenario.   

“Please,” Sherlock grumped.  “If anything it’s emotional cheating and you’ve been doing that with me since day one.”

John opened her mouth to argue but let it fall closed.  How many people had spurted that line at her?  Yes, she was close with Sherlock but she was her best friend, for whatever wonderful ungodly reason that came to pass.  They were girls and girls tended to be close.  The fact that men were pigs who loved to picture them having naked pillow fights was not her fault.  Whenever she told them no to the lesbian action with Sherlock, they loved to spurt the ‘emotional cheating’ excuse for breaking up with her and not for the real reason being they could not get it on with two girls at once.  It was always a pathetic excuse in John’s mind.  Women had closer bonds than men and she and Sherlock had one of the strongest bonds of anyone she had ever befriended.  If Sherlock were a man then yes, she could see it as emotional cheating.  But Sherlock was decidedly all female.  It was ridiculous.  

Then again they were talking about crossing some line here that might actually verge on naked pillow fighting.  But what even was it but a kind of experiment?  She supposed that might be acceptable way of describing it.  Sherlock would not actually propose this if it were not completely scientific.   Sherlock experimented on her all the time.  This would be no different.  Without the possibility of sex, it would be almost normal.  Frightening to think it would be something where Sherlock had absolutely full control, but that’s what safewords were for, right?  How bad could it be? 

God.  Safewords.  What had her life become?

“An experiment?”  John asked. 

Sherlock nodded. 

Martin could accept an experiment.  He was a science teacher after all.  He would understand the need to know for knowledge’s sake.  

Sherlock would not quit until she got her way anyway.  If John did not give her permission, she would find another avenue.  Probably yell at her to drop and give her twenty while brushing her teeth or start smacking her arse at crime scenes to gage her reaction.  

“Not forever.” John heard herself say the words before she fully gave them permission to leave her mouth.  “Just… we’ll see how it goes, yeah?”

“Whatever you wish, John.” 

* * *

John showed up for her rescheduled pizza and movie night with Martin in jeans and a tank top.  It was her favorite outfit.  Sherlock had not so much as tinted the color of either item or put a single hole in even the hem.  Every stain was of John’s own creation.  

Martin greeted her with a kiss and walked her to the couch where pizza and wings were already waiting.  Lucky for her, Martin was cheating on his diet again.

“Yum,” John hummed and jumped into her first slice, already halfway through it before looking back up at Martin.  “Sorry,” she chuckled.  

“Sherlock keep you from eating again?” Martin teased, his eyes crinkling. 

“A bit,” she smiled around another mouthful.  “There was this banker who had a cock drawn on his forehead and Sherlock swore it had to do with that Arnold case because it was done in lipstick.” 

“The one that was solved already?” 

John nodded.  “Though they don’t seem connected in any way.  He died in his apartment on the sofa after some kind of party.  There were empty bottles everywhere.  Alcohol poisoning.  But she’s convinced it’s something related to a boozing barber.  I don’t know.  I didn’t ask.”

Martin smiled fondly and shuffled closer, leaning back against the couch.  “What movie did you bring?”

John held up the DVD.  “I don’t know what it is.  Sherlock had it hiding behind one of her experiments.”

Martin’s eyes widened. 

John laughed, “Don’t worry.  Nothing hazardous.  Just a bit of phosphorous.  The rock kind.”

Martin smiled and plucked it from her hands, reading the title aloud.  “Vicky Cristina Barcelona.  Woody Allen?”

John nodded.  “Thought we could give it a shot.   If it’s awful, we can always find something else.”

John seethed the entire movie.  True, it was partially her own fault.  She did not read the cover to see what the movie was about.  She did not take the time to look for a movie herself, though the dead cock banker did take up most of her day.  

The message was clear, fucked up as it was.  Sherlock planted the movie and wanted John to bring their arrangement up to Martin.  It was the only thing stopping them from having their first scene, or whatever it was called.  John refused to start anything as crazy and ridiculous as D/s play with her best friend without checking in with her longterm boyfriend.  

The movie credits rolled and Martin leaned over, clearly trying for a kiss.  John let him but did not return very much, effectively stopping him in his tracks.  

“What’s wrong?” Martin pulled away, not in the least bit angry.  He really was a good bloke. 

“I…”  John curled a leg over the couch and leaned towards him.   “Sherlock wanted me to ask you about… well, an experiment.”

“Me?” Martin smirked, his eyebrows rising playfully. 

John smiled back and shook her head.  “She wants to experiment on me.”

“Nothing new…” He drawled. 

“She wants to tell me what to do, and I have to follow her orders no matter how ridiculous or embarrassing, no questions asked.”

Martin nodded along, his smirk returning.  “Also, nothing new.”

“But-”  John sighed and shifted.  “Maybe I’m not explaining this well enough.”

“Sherlock will tell you what to do and you’ll do it.  You’re telling me in case you act strange and it affects me in any way.  It’s fine.”  He smiled and wrapped a large arm around her and tugged her into his lap.  “As long as you’re not kissing any blokes, I’m alright with it.”

“What about girls?” John joked, and then promptly closed her mouth.  That counted as sexual, right?  Sherlock would not actually kiss her.  That would be extra strange.  And she promised she would not make her return to that horrible club.  Unless Sherlock invited someone to the flat, which John would definitely say no to.  Not a possibility. 

Martin chuckled and shook his head back and forth.  “Then I would need a photo.”

John laughed, tried to push his arms away, and failed miserably -mostly because she was not trying very hard.  “Seriously,” she cleared her throat.  “It could get weird.  Intimately weird.”

Martin seemed to contemplate this for a moment and tilted his head with mock concern.  “No sex stuff, right?”

John nodded.  That much she knew.  “No sex stuff.”

“Then it’s fine.  Though I can’t imagine why you would want to.  I already know you’ll do whatever she asks.  But I appreciate you telling me.”

Martin pulled her in close and started laying kisses up and down her neck, closing in on her mouth and slipping into a lingering kiss.  She shifted, felt the bulge in his pants, and wondered just how long that had been there.  Perhaps she should have painted a clearer picture about Sherlock’s plans, not that she truly even had a clear idea.  

John was pulled from her thoughts as Martin pushed up and tugged her towards the bedroom, shutting the lights off on the way.  

* * *

 

When John returned home the next day, Sherlock was throwing kitchen knives at their perfectly nice wallpaper.  Wallpaper that now had a cock drawn on it in dark purple lipstick. 

“Did you use my lipstick for that cock?” John growled.

“It wasn’t your shade,” Sherlock grumbled and threw the next knife, sending the blade straight through the tip.  

“No!”  John yelled.  “Nope!  No more knife throwing!  Absolutely not.  Mrs. Hudson is going to have a heart attack when she sees this.”

She rushed to Sherlock’s side and disarmed her, stole a handful of knives from the floor, and contemplated how she could wrestle for the one that magically popped out of her dressing gown sleeve.  Sherlock seemed to guess her move, ran for the couch, jumped up, and slammed the knife home into the base of the balls. 

John rolled her eyes and shoved the knives in the sink to be washed later.  “You know, sometimes I wish I could come home and the wallpaper would not be a holey cock-filled mess.”

“I didn’t realize you were worshiping cock now.”

“Whoever says you’re not funny clearly has not had the privilege of living with you.  I really must write down-”  Sherlock was suddenly directly behind her with a loud jump.  “Jesus Christ!”

Sherlock smiled eagerly.  “You told him.” 

John whirled towards the fridge, not quite having caught up with the Sherlock train of thought.  “Huh?”

Another moment later and Sherlock’s grin spread, “And he said yes.”

“What?”

“Merlin-”

“Mart-”  John dropped the door and spun around, baffled.  “Did you just call my boyfriend a wizard?”

“Merlin said yes to our arrangement.”

“Yes,” John nodded.  “But-”

“I’m sure you explained yourself perfectly well.  It’s not your fault a sack of bricks could outwit him.”

“And he wonders why I never bring him round,” John hummed and searched the back of the cupboards for the good tea.  “You’re cleaning that cock off the wall, young lady.  And I want my lipstick back!”

“Mrs. Hudson won’t be scared of a cock,” Sherlock huffed and collapsed into her chair, rubbing at the dark circles under her eyes.  

“Well, Lestrade is scared of them.  Especially since the woody Moriarty left you.  And isn’t he meeting you here today?”

“He cancelled.”  Sherlock groaned and flipped herself upside down, her dressing gown slipping over her knees and nearly revealing her underthings.  “He doesn’t believe the cases should be reopened.” 

“Maybe it’s like I said,” John soothed, pulling down a second mug for Sherlock.  “Moriarty could just be screwing with you.  I’m fairly certain the banker did die of self inflicted alcohol poisoning and it was one of his mates that drew it.  I wouldn’t want my friend’s family to know if I drew a cock on their dead husband.  Maybe after your tea we could get something to eat and you could lie down and-”

“That’s two cock cases in as many weeks, John!  The universe-”

“Is hardly so lazy, I know.  But we are saying cock far more than I feel is decent so I believe we should change the subject.”

“To Milo’s cock?”  Sherlock chuckled.

John rolled her eyes at the kettle.   Why did she even bother?  

“No,” John sighed.  “Merlin- I mean, Martin-”

Sherlock interrupted with the loudest fit of giggles John had ever heard escape from wherever she locked them up inside her palace.  She even snorted a few times, squeaking like an uncontrollable cat with her favorite toy.  

The laugh was infectious and the thought of Martin walking around with a cane and white beard had John giggling until the water boiled.  

“Alright,” John sighed.  “Moving on, please.”

Sherlock cleared her throat and asked, “How was your horrible sex with our favorite wizard?”

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“He said yes,” Sherlock spun into a sitting position and started tapping the side of the her seat.  

John stared at those tapping nails and slunk into her chair with her cup, not bothering to hand Sherlock hers.  Sherlock would probably just ignore it and John really just wanted to take a shower and change.  

“We could start tomorrow,” Sherlock announced.

“No,” John yelped.  She took a breath and gaped, stumbling over what she wanted to say.  “Aren’t you afraid things will get… strange?”

Sherlock studied her, those silver eyes quickly raking over her closed legs and tied back hair.  “You are.”  Sherlock rose and shook her head, matter of factly.  “Unnecessary.  If anything becomes too strange we’ll stop.” 

“I just mean…”  Sherlock picked up her tea from beside John and traveled into the kitchen, leaving John to call after her.  “How will this not get sexual?”

“Oh, it will.”

John spun to her feet.  “But you said-”

“No sex,” Sherlock clipped, in the middle of setting up her microscope.  “I am aware you don’t want to have sex with me.  Though your sister does.”  She gestured towards the phone on the table.  “She texted again.  This time with a picture.”

John’s nose crinkled.  “Dare I look?”

“I wouldn’t.”  

Harry really needed to stop with that.  Just because her relationship with the newest girlfriend was crumbling did not mean she needed to steal John’s best friend, again.  Whether she was flirting without purpose, knowing Sherlock was not interested, or really that desperate was in character for her either way.  John should call her about it.  It could wait until tomorrow, but before or after she and Sherlock did...things?

John bit down on her cheek and abruptly puffed out a breath.  “How can this be sexual without sex?”

Sherlock shrugged, now adjusting the eyepiece, not even bothering to look her way.  “Same hormones, adrenaline rushes, emotional bonds.”

“Emotional bonds?”

“Don’t worry, John,” Sherlock smiled.  “You’ll only grow more attached to me.  Learn to trust me more.”

John bit her lips and played with the rim of her glass, wondering if there were any other arguments she could put up that Sherlock would not automatically diffuse.  “I think I already trust you more than any sane person would.”

“Which is why I’m exactly the right person to do this.”

John left it at that and ran off to take her shower, reminding herself to make sure she put a note on the door for Mrs. Hudson to steer clear until she could scrub the wall clean.  And maybe replaster a few dozen holes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A part of me wanted John to say no so Sherlock could torture her into saying yes with such things like slapping ass and random hair pulling, but that would be a completely different fic… or at least make this one 10 times longer and crack-ier (and it’s already fairly long)(everything can always use more crack though).


	6. Freesia

Sleep was a very elusive thing for the occupants of 221B.  Sherlock somehow functioned like a new form of humanoid robot, being one of those geniuses that needed only four hours a day in naps, if that.  While John, when not suffering from PTSD nightmares, had rampant chronic insomnia.  

Last night’s bout of insomnia was plagued with the obsession over Sherlock’s D/s plans.  John had been running over every possibility that came to mind, but knew that for every idea she had, Sherlock would have one hundred others.  

Research led to many questions and one tricky virus, now stuck on John’s computer, which made porn pop up every time she tried to open the browser.  Beyond the blog, John was not very tech-savvy.  She would ask Sherlock to remove it for her, but knew there would be at least ten pretentious comments about John’s porn history and her inability to research data properly.  Did she not know what rootkits were?  How could she not tell the difference between one link that moved and one that did not?  Why was she so nervous about their new game?  Was it not just Truth or Dare with only dares?

Sherlock would find it the next time she stole the computer and John would just get the satisfaction of seeing her flabbergasted when people suddenly started humping in front of her.  Volume set on high, of course. 

With no shift to worry about, John had a bit of a lie-in, catching up on as much sleep as she could, before heading down around lunch.  Sherlock was nowhere to be found, so John slipped on her running gear and went out for a jog, hoping the nice summer weather would hold longer than it had the year before.  

A solid 10km were under her belt when Sherlock messaged. 

_ You forgot your umbrella. -SH _

John puffed and collapsed into the nearest park bench, catching her breath and texting back.  

_ Weather report said not going to rain. -JW _

_ It will rain. -SH _

_ How do you know that? - JW _

_ You have been using your left leg and right arm more this morning.  Mrs. Hudson has incessantly been complaining about her hip all day.  It will rain.  -SH _

_ I don’t know how you know that about me.  You weren’t home this morning.  And there was never anything wrong with my leg.  -JW _

_ Yet, when it rains, it pours, and your leg acts up. -SH _

John was halfway through replying when a new message came in. 

_ Old rugby injury.  Made you believe that your leg could actually be hurt when you were told it was psychosomatic.  Pulled ACL.  Now come before you get wet. -SH _

John paused, re-read the message and shook her head.  Too much porn.  

_ You are brilliant, as always.  But it will not rain.  Our old joints ache.  It has nothing to do with the weather- JW _

John sat back up and stretched, watching the sky.  The Powers That Be truly hated her because not two minutes later, grey clouds swirled and rain started to sprinkle.    

_ There have been studies.-SH _

_ I told you so. - SH _

John growled and clutched her phone in her fist.  Why did athletic wear need to be skin tight?  It was warm, she wanted shorts. She should not be punished with a lack of pockets and therefore the decision to leave her wallet at home and nowhere to put her mobile but a sticky bra.  She made a face and pushed herself forward, internally screaming when the sprinkle turned into a downpour.  

By the time she reached the flat she was out of breath and soaking.  That may have been the fastest she ever sprinted outside of a warzone, but she had not prepared herself for it.  Everything ached.  She wanted nothing more than to shower and sprawl out over the couch to watch bad telly.  

Sherlock was waiting for her with one hand raised, a strip of black lace dangling between her fingertips. 

John huffed and kicked off her shoes, tossed her phone to the ground and ignored the gift.  “No way.  Not today.  I’m beat, Sherlock.”

“Yes, today,” Sherlock countered, raising the necklace higher.  

“I’m gross,” John huffed, pulling her snarled hair out of its ponytail.  “I’m wet.  And I just want to shower.”

“I have something better as your reward,” Sherlock smiled, now dangling it in front of her face like a carrot. 

“Sherlock,” John grumbled, pulled her shirt from her body and tossed it across her chair, fanning at the skin that stuck together.  “I am not in the mood.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and hummed.  She spun towards her violin and mumbled under her breath.  “I did not realize you were capable of cowardice.”

John stomped into the kitchen to get a glass of water.  “What?” 

Sherlock shrugged, picked up the instrument and plucked a few piercing notes.  “Nothing,” she shook her head and faced the window, mumbling to the street.  “I didn’t realize you were scared of a little game.”

“Scared,” John scoffed, gulped down tepid water and shoved the freezer open.  Hopefully the ice would not be blood infused this time. 

“I believe the term is chicken,” Sherlock called over a rather shrieking note.  

John slammed the freezer shut.  The ice was orange.  “Are you seriously trying to goad me by calling me chicken?”

Sherlock smirked over her shoulder.  “It’s working.”   She turned back to the window and added, “Unless you really think you won’t be able to do it…”

Damn her.  Even when John knew she was being manipulated, she could not resist a challenge.  Especially not when Sherlock slapped the metaphorical glove.  

“Fine.”  John downed her glass and entered the room, hands on her hips.   “Let me change and-”

“You will not be changing.”

“But I’m soaking-”

“Good.”  Sherlock delicately placed her violin in its case.  When she spun, she was her usual elegant self, radiating beauty and wit in a sharp pantsuit, but there was something in her eyes that demanded John pay extra attention.  Drill sergeants carried around the same authoritative gleam, ready to snap at the slightest show of disrespect and take pleasure in every moment of torture.  “And from this point on you will only address me as miss and only speak when asked.  Understood?”

John opened her mouth to answer but Sherlock raised a brow disapprovingly.  Alright, the game was on then.  John nodded. 

“Good,” Sherlock purred.  “I will be taking it easy on you today, but I still want you to choose a safeword.  Anything coming to mind?”

Taking it easy?  John had no idea what to expect but she was sure she would not share Sherlock’s sentiment.  

John smirked and nodded. 

Sherlock’s eyebrow returned.  “If the next word out of your mouth begins with an m and ends with a t, I’m afraid I’ll have to pick for you.  Say whatever you chose.” 

John tried hard not to giggle.  Moist was a word that even Sherlock Holmes twitched at hearing.  There was no good reason or purpose for such a reaction and therefore Sherlock loathed it.  

Sherlock tisked and sighed dramatically.  “I’ll choose then, shall I?  Your safe word is freesia.  Repeat it back to me.”

“Freesia.”  John mouthed it again, not even remotely recalling its meaning.  Maybe it was foreign.

“In the unlikely event that you wish to stop, say freesia and I shall.  Otherwise you stay silent, doing as I say, when I say it.  Confirm.”

“Yes,” John said, not quite sure if she should be looking at the floor or what would happen if she let her creeping smile fly free.  

Sherlock cleared her throat. 

“Miss,” John stumbled, falling into military rest.  “Yes, miss.” 

“We’ll work on it,” Sherlock hissed. 

John frowned at herself, a small weight settling in her gut.  She had that habit when it came to Sherlock.  It was so hard to impress her, but it felt so amazing whenever John noticed something significant or offhandedly connected an important piece of the murder mystery puzzle.  Sherlock would collapse all her attention on John, soaking in every bit of her and smiling in a way she only ever did for her.  

Whenever Sherlock treated her like the rest of the dull, unimportant, uneducated population, it never failed to make it feel like sludge resting at the bottom of a shower drain. 

If this game, or experiment or whatever it was, was going to work the way Sherlock wanted it to, John supposed she would need to actually try.  

“Sorry, miss,” John mumbled, throwing her gaze to the ground and clasping her hands higher behind her back, her wrists sticking to the drying flesh of her spine. 

John could not see Sherlock’s reaction, but she did hum.  

Then, the necklace appeared, dark against Sherlock’s skin, the red heart shining in the kitchen’s light.  

“Put it on,” Sherlock commanded and John did not hesitate to grab and fasten it as best as she could.  It seemed to have stretched since the last time it was on her, causing it to land a little lower on her neck, but it clasped on the last hook without issue.  

“Go sit in the corner,” Sherlock pointed towards the end of the living room beyond their sofa.  “On your knees, hands in your lap.  Face the wall and no talking.”

John looked up, her eyes pinching.  Sherlock only waited.  

A spot had been cleared out for her, but it was not very big.  She dropped into it, faced the wall, and situated herself on her knees.  It was not the most comfortable position but she supposed it could be worse. 

Then she waited.  And waited.  And waited. 

Was this it?  

Sherlock had not moved or said anything and John’s legs were starting to pulse, her muscles begging to be stretched after her long jog.  Her shoulder was aching a bit, probably from the rain if Sherlock was to be believed.  

“No moving,” Sherlock snapped.

John sighed.  She had barely turned around.  There was nothing but wood and wallpaper.  No so much as a silver spoon to reflect Sherlock’s face.  

Time ticked by and John fidgeted.  This seemed ridiculous.  Her hair was frizzing, uncomfortably sticking to her neck, and her clothes were snagging and pinching.  She felt gross and stupid. 

What if Lestrade walked in, or Mrs. Hudson, or -god forbid- Mycroft?  

“Would you like that?” Sherlock asked and John jumped, her heart leaping against her chest.  Sherlock laughed darkly and her footsteps creaked closer.  “I thought you wanted it to be just the two of us.  But if you really cannot get others out of your mind, I suppose I can invite them over to see you.  To watch.”

John shook her head no and slumped forward, her head tilting to the side.  Funny, she had meant to verbalize that.  Sitting for so long without talking must have had something to do with it.  She wondered if Sherlock noticed, and then promptly chastised herself.  Of course she noticed.  

The floorboards creaked as Sherlock dipped behind her and spoke directly into her ear, the puff of her breath gliding over John’s cheek.  “This wouldn’t be the most compromising position they could find you in, would it?”

John’s brow twitched.  That had to be a rhetorical question.  

“I think we can be more creative than that,” Sherlock murmured. 

John’s face crumpled.  

“Move away from the wall,” Sherlock commanded. 

John stretched out a leg and was rewarded with a sharp slap on the thigh.  She yelped and stared at the red splotch where Sherlock’s hand had connected.  Her heart pounded as the pink shadow of lanky fingers appeared against her skin.  

“On your hands and knees and only when I say,” Sherlock reminded her, calm and smooth as ever. 

“Sorry,” John breathed, just barely remembering to add, “-er- miss.” 

Sherlock grunted and it was not a sound John thought boded well for her.  

“Move to the center of the room.  Put your face on the ground, looking towards the sofa.  Grab the inside of your thighs with the opposite hand, and lift your bum towards the door.  Do you think you can handle that?”

John hoped there would be nothing but dust bunnies to greet under that sofa and nodded.  “Yes, miss.”

“Move,” Sherlock demanded and pushed away from her, strutting to the other side of the room. 

John was tempted to look up at her, but could not make herself do it while crawling on all fours.  If anything she wanted to sneak a peek at the clock to see how long she had been sitting and waiting but had no doubt that would break some part of the rules.  Besides, she had enough deductive skill to know she was still fairly wet from the rain.  

Assuming the position, she sighed.  This curving of her body finally allowed her to stretch out some of her aching muscles, only putting a slight strain on her shoulders.  Her smile barely flinched when she spotted what she sincerely hoped was a mold culture and not a piece of a very old sandwich. 

“Look at you,” Sherlock hummed and stepped around her, distracting her from her thoughts.   “It’s too bad they can’t see you laid out like this.”  She dipped down again, her eyes raking over her from head to toe.  John followed the track of those calculating features, though most of what she saw was chin and nose.  “Close your eyes.”

John closed them obediently, thankful for not having the choice to stare at either mold or a gaze that could take in every single wrinkle.  She sucked in a breath and wiggled her legs out, her face scratching against their throw rug.  

“No,” Sherlock whispered.  “Don’t think that.”  Her finger suddenly appeared on John’s shoulder, tracing a slow deliberate trail with the tip of her nail up to her stomach and into the dip of her skin.  “These lines and folds are as beautiful as you.  Telling a story, each of them.”

John shifted again, letting go of a bit of breath, not entirely certain if it came off as a huff. 

“This,” Sherlock slid her palm over the bit of fat that muffined over the spandex of her running shorts.  “This says that you are finally home.  Enjoying what you lacked abroad.  This says late night curry and a double helping of cheesecake after a particularly harrowing case.  Comfortable.  Happy.”

The corner’s of John’s eyes started to burn, which was odd, because she was not usually the crying type.  There was no real reason.  Sherlock was just spurting off nonsense about her fat roll.  But the way she was gliding her hand back and forth, barely touching and raising goosebumps across her flesh, felt so true and intimate that John had to pinch her eyes tight.

“While these,” Sherlock slipped her palm over John’s back and around her arse, cupping the back of her legs above the flesh John gripped in her hands.  “These muscles show my warrior.  They show you are strong and capable.  Ready for a fight at a moment’s notice.  Jumping across buildings and into dumpsters.  Beating down a man twice your size in half the expected time.  Forever a soldier.”

The corners of John’s mouth slipped upwards slowly, her body pushing into the slow glide of hand over muscles.  It felt absolutely heavenly as the pulsing started to dissipate.  The only pouding left was the rain still pouring outside, white noise aiding the dip in John’s back.

“You are always an anomaly, John Watson,” Sherlock hummed and ran her hands over John’s, down to her calves, petting and tracing with her nails, all the way to her still-soaked socks.  She dipped her fingers under the seam and pulled each sock off individually, tossing them somewhere beyond John’s head.  

John stretched her toes and sighed as the tops of her feet pressed against the throw.  

“You are gorgeous and powerful, like lightning crashing against the sand.”   Sherlock’s hand traced back up, past John’s hand, and around her inner thigh.  Up it went until her nails dipped under the bottom of her shorts.  “Imagine if they came,”  Sherlock muttered.  “They would see all that and this,” Her finger suddenly swooped to the center, pressing against the middle of John’s arse, a small pit of pressure forcing fabric between her cheeks near her arsehole. 

John inhaled sharply and swallowed.   Her body rocked forward, trying to press into the floor, but was unable to do so.  There was a pause where all she could hear was the sound of her own breathing and the rain continuing to crash.  Sherlock seemed to be waiting for something, but for the life of her, John could not think of what.  All thoughts were redirected to the digit pressing against her.  

Sherlock’s finger moved, sliding up towards her spine, pressing harder as she went.  “You’re wet.” She traced her fingernail under the band of her shorts, tickling along her lower back.  “Your shorts are light.  They would see.”  Her fingernail continued to tease and just as John fell back into relaxation, the finger dipped again, tracing along her cheek instead.  “They would not know you were in the rain.  They would only see you with your arse in the air, wet and waiting.  They would know.  They would know what a lovely whore you are.”

John’s heart thudded and her breath caught on a gasp, her choker pulling around her neck.  Her hands fumbled as her thighs shifted, muscles pulling as Sherlock’s hands traced back up her spine, her body curling with every vertebra touched.  

“I think you would like that,” Sherlock whispered. 

A small moan came out of John’s open mouth and she shifted again, her hot face pulling across the rug and her slick hands starting to slip.

Suddenly, Sherlock disappeared.  John fell into the vacant space and frowned.  Sherlock’s footsteps echoed around the room, away from her and into the kitchen.  

John waited, the heat surrounding her, her breath catching as she tried to hold it to hear what Sherlock was doing.  The fridge opened a few times and things cluttered on the counter but John could not make out any more than that.  

She was coming back, right?  She would not just leave her in this position.  She was not actually going to invite people over.  

Right?

Just as John was contemplating breaking the no speaking rule, Sherlock returned.  She creaked towards John’s head, standing above her. 

“You are going to make me dinner,” Sherlock said, all ice, without a trace of the affection she showed a minute ago.  “The recipe and ingredients are on the table.  You will rise and go directly to the kitchen.  You will not change but you will put your hair up.  I don’t like hair in my food.”

John nodded against the ground, sweat making rug hair stick to her damp face.  

“You will crawl to the kitchen, get up slowly, and wash your hands.  I will not be watching you, so don’t screw it up.”

John nodded again. 

“Go,” Sherlock demanded and left, walking towards her bedroom and leaving John to follow commands. 

It would be easy to get up and walk to the kitchen.  Sherlock was already behind her closed door by the time John lifted her face from the ground.  

Sherlock would know.  

John was not quite sure what the punishment would be -she was fairly certain they were supposed to discuss that beforehand- but decided it was not worth the debate.  She crawled to the kitchen and hoped dinner would not be something fancy and French.  

Lucky for her, it was just a chicken stir fry.  She could handle that.  In fact, Sherlock had laid out the ingredients in order of requirement and left her all the clean dishes she needed.  Within ten minutes she already had everything cut up and the vegetables softening.  

John was busy figuring out if she should cook the chicken separately when she heard the tub turn on in the next room over.  She paused in her reading and spun towards the hall, raw chicken in one hand and a knife in the other. 

Seriously?  John was in here, slaving away, sweating and sticky and consumed by the heat of the stovetop, and Sherlock was bathing?  

Probably not bathing, John thought.   Sherlock usually dictated bathing as a waste of her precious time. 

An experiment then.  Or something equally offensive.  John was not sure why she found herself offended.  A part of her had just been expecting Sherlock to be waiting for her to finish, propped on her bed in her Mind Palace or something, all thoughts on John’s doings.  

She was disappointed but had to be realistic.  Sherlock would get bored of that quick enough.  John could not actually expect her to just sit and wait in the corner like she made John do earlier.   

Besides, the chicken was dripping and John needed to clean that before some form of salmonella super virus was concocted between the tiles.  

John stepped back when she finished plating and nodded to herself.  She pulled her hair tighter and tugged at the choker around her neck, breathing deep.  It looked pretty good.  Actually, very good.  She did not eat any of it while cooking, and she had not had lunch, and after jogging, she could say she was rightfully hungry.  Her mouth watered and she reached forward before pulling her hand back to her side.  

“Looks good,” Sherlock called from the door and John jumped to face her.  “Leave the dishes and meet me by the bathroom door.”

“Um-” John looked at the food longingly but rolled her lips and nodded, walking to the bathroom.  

Maybe Sherlock wanted to show her the experiment she had been doing while John was cooking.  She hoped it would not take long.  

A few moments later, Sherlock returned.  “Eyes closed,” she said.  When John obeyed, she reached around her and opened the door, nudging her inside.  

The room smelled like honey and rose petals.  John breathed deep and sighed, her bones relaxing, her feet wiggling against the warm tile floors.  As hungry as she was, it was nothing compared to how exhausted she felt.  

The door clicked shut and Sherlock approached her, her hands slipping up both her arms and circling her shoulders, towards her neck.  “Open your eyes,” she murmured. 

John obeyed and her mouth fell open.  The entire bathroom was lit by only candles, all the sent of some kind of honey and resting on nearly every surface.  The tub was filled with soapy water, tinted pink.  A tray that ran across the width of it was new.  On it was a single glass of wine and cutlery, John’s most recent book resting where the plate would go.  

“You’ve been very good, ma chérie,” Sherlock squeezed her shoulders and she melted, her mysterious tears making a second appearance.  “You get your reward.”

The necklace clipped off and Sherlock pulled it away, tugging it into her pocket before spinning to John’s front.  Her hands slid over John’s face, pushing away her clinging bangs and smiling with a gentle tug of her lips.  

“Thank you, miss.” John practically whined. 

Sherlock smiled wider and pushed her hands over John’s hair again.  “The necklace is off, John.  You don’t need to call me that anymore.”

John felt her cheeks heat but could not care.  The bath was far too distracting. 

“Do you need me to help you undress?” Sherlock asked, tugging at John’s sports bra. 

John took a moment before she shook her head, sure she could at least manage that.  

“I’ll be right back,” Sherlock said, disappearing from the room. 

A moan echoed through the small room and John realized she was the only one left to make such a noise.  She struggled to get out of her clinging clothes and threw them across the room, nearly hitting one of the many candles and swearing under her breath.  She climbed into the steaming tub and groaned, sliding all the way in and inhaling the scent of roses.  

Hot and humid felt wonderful in this context.  She ducked her head under the water and pulled her hair tie out, slipping back up and pushing the hair towards her back.  

Sherlock had returned with the food, nudged the book over and put it in its place.  She even set a towel down on the floor. 

“Aren’t you going to eat any?” John asked lazily, suddenly finding all her energy gone.  

“I have a plate in the kitchen,” Sherlock answered and reached out, her arm halting and quickly pulling back into her body.  “I’ll leave you to it.”

Sherlock left before John could say anything.  She sighed and dug into her food, mentally complimenting the chef and giggling over her wine.  She felt slightly tipsy, though she was not sure why.  

That had been an experience, for sure.  It was not at all what she had expected but she could easily say she did not hate it.  As odd as it was at first, it somehow became easy to slip into the swing of it.  

As for her reward, she laid back and moaned again.  The payoff was definitely worth it. 

When John finished her food and wine and was properly pruned, she decided it was time to vacate her wonderful bath.  Outside the bathroom door were her pajamas, already picked out with a brand new pair of knickers.  They were a royal blue boy cut with lace on the top, of which she approved.  

Sherlock was waiting for her on the couch, silent and clearly in her Mind Palace.  John tried to sneak past but she snapped up to a seated position and slapped the cushion next to her. 

“Sit,” Sherlock said and John did.  After a moment, Sherlock turned to her and asked, “Good?”

John’s smile was easy and relaxed, just like the rest of her.  “Very.”

Sherlock nodded and leaned back, causing John to do the same.  Suddenly, the remote was in John’s hand and Sherlock instructed her to pick whatever she liked.  John’s eyebrows raised but she dared not question this sudden stroke of politeness.  

“Games shows it is,” John teased.  Sherlock loved to beat out all the other contestants, her complaints about teadium be damned.  


	7. Cock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to take the time to say thank you for reading and ask again that for any concerns/complaints/suggestions/questions/if you are offended by anything, please feel free to politely comment or reach out to me via email (birdie7272@yahoo.com).  I am more than willing to discuss any and every aspect of my fic but I respond best to respectful inquiries.  Fandom = love.
> 
> On a happy note... We have a goddess among us!  The lovely [Jaharra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaharra) has offered to beta for us.  *bows* Praise her and her grammar wisdom!

 

****Moriarty really and truly was the definition of an absolute bitch.

Their next case brought with it a recurring theme.

“Cock!” Sherlock shouted loud enough to make everyone on the street jump.  

They were walking back from their latest case, intent on making it to St. Bart’s before Molly left for home.  Not that she would not stay after hours anyway.  Poor sweet bisexual Molly still had the biggest crush on grumpy never-going-to-happen Sherlock.

The case was the murder of an unnameable man in his fifties.  His fingerprints had been burned off and, so far, nothing had come up as a DNA match and his dental records would take a few days, minimal.  He was found sitting in the urinal of a public bathroom, held up by rope and what Sherlock had immediately identified as ‘a various array of cock rings’.  

The dead man was naked, which made it easy to see his penis was completely missing, the wound cauterized by what Sherlock deduced as a homemade blowtorch.  Lestrade could not hold back his hiss of sympathy when John assured him it had not been post mortem this time.    

Sherlock had plenty of deductions, including that the man was an assassin who enjoyed tuna salad, but the death itself was still a puzzle.  The man’s tongue had been carved out but that was an old injury.   On top of his bald head was a target, three circles surrounding a dot, all drawn in bright red lipstick.  All evidence pointed to asphyxiation but there were no marks around or in the throat.  

Sherlock took samples of the lipstick while John distracted the yarders with the tale of Sherlock's bras cooking in the oven last winter and they left immediately for Bart’s to access superior equipment.  

“Hey, lady,” A man further up the street called to Sherlock, a shit eating grin on his face, three of his friends chuckling behind him.  “If you want my cock you don’t got to shout.  All you gotta do is smile for me, babes.”

John groaned.  At the moment, she really did not want to fight a group of twenty year old idiots.  It was too bright out and there would be cops.

The man continued, winking and thrusting out his hips as they passed.  “I bet you look gorgeous when you smile.  Those lips were made for something alright.”

Sherlock whipped around and growled.  “Your mother’s a slag.”  

The man threw up his hands and chuckled to his friends.  “No need to be a cunt.  I’m only giving you a compliment.”

“No,” Sherlock clipped her heels to a stop and enunciated extra slow.  “I’m not saying that as some generic insult.  Your mother is actually a slag.”  She gestured to his group of friends.  “She’s sleeping with your best friend there and that man there.  In fact, his fly is still down and he has her lipstick on his zipper.  So apparently, she was whoring with him this morning!”

Madness broke out as the friends guiltily argued back, running when the son eventually came after them.  John chuckled to herself and pulled Sherlock along before she started pointedly insulting any of the strangers that did not deserve it.  

“Hello,” Molly greeted softly, tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and dropped her gaze once Sherlock nodded at her.

Of anyone in that room, John would have guessed Molly to be the sub.  Then again, who knew what Molly got up to when alone with her boyfriend.  If she still had that boyfriend.  John had not dared to ask, lest she burst into a fit of tears like the last time she had a breakup.  

“Hey Molly,” John greeted and took a seat as Sherlock got to work.  “How are you?”

“Fine,” Molly said, her eyes wandering towards Sherlock.  “What’s this case?”

“Cock!” Sherlock yelled.

Molly blanched, her face turning an alarming shade of red.  

John chuckled under her breath and turned to Sherlock.  “Stop trying to scar Molly.”

Sherlock huffed and pulled out her phone.

John turned back to Molly and smiled.  “Third crime scene in a month that a penis has been featured in.”

Molly’s red face did not recede.  “Strange,” she choked.  

“Very,” John agreed.  

Molly did not need to hear about Moriarty.  John was sure she could handle herself, but Molly was still an emotional person.  It hurt when she found out her new girlfriend was actually an evil mastermind using her to get to her number one crush.  There was no need to bring up any reappearances if it were not detrimental to her safety.  

“Let me know if there is any way I can help,” Molly offered.

John nodded.  “The body will be brought here.  Cause of death would be fantastic, as per usual.”

The cause of death came back in two days time, no thanks to Sherlock’s 56 text messages asking for updates.  

“Really?” John called into the phone, having snatched it once Sherlock started going off on a rude tirade about Molly being distracted by juvenile arguments with her immature excuse for a lover.

“Yup,” Molly answered.  “Still no DNA matching in the system but it is definitely his.”

“There won’t be a match on anything!” Sherlock yelled, upside down on the sofa.  “He was an assassin!”

Molly continued, clearing her throat, “Right, so, like I said.  The sperm and blood in his throat matches his own DNA.  The cause of death was by something thick and rounded but not strong enough to cut through the tissue in the throat.  Which, with the DNA, leads me to believe-”

“He choked on his own cock!” Sherlock screamed, throwing a hand into her hair.

Molly coughed, “Yes.  That.  After he had, um, ejaculated.”

“Thank you, Molly,” John sighed and looked to Sherlock, now curled up and kicking both legs  over the back of the couch.  “That’s… very disturbing, but I’m sure very helpful.”

“No problem,” Molly said.  “Now, if you don’t mind I need to call Greg.”

“Of course.  Talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

The phone call done, John joined Sherlock on the couch, steering clear of her feet pounding against the wall.  

“Look,” John started, trying to be as reasonable as she could when there was a big purple cock mural still above her.  “I was wrong.  Clearly this is Moriarty having fun.  But you’ve beaten her before.  She’s left you a string of murders that you now know are definitely linked.  Once you look at all the pieces, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Oh,” Sherlock cried, spinning and pounding her head into the cushions instead of banging her feet.  “You wonderfully dimwitted girl.  How I long to live in your head for only a day.  It would be a holiday!”

John sighed, waiting for the drama queen to get to the point.  

“You don’t get it!”  Sherlock rolled completely around again and dropped her head in John’s lap.  “There is always something more with her.  If I haven’t connected the pieces by now, that means there is one missing, and that _one_ will likely end up like the others any day now.”  

John’s mouth puckered in understanding.  “Someone else is going to die.  And you’re worried you won’t save them in time.”

“Oh, please.”  Sherlock huffed and turned into John’s stomach, her voice muffled by John’s shirt.  “That’s no concern of mine.”

John grit her teeth, reminding herself Sherlock was not actually a heartless witch of a woman and that she just did not like to be called out on having emotions.  Scared of intimacy, that one.

“He won’t be…”  Sherlock crossed her arms in front of her chest.  “What did you call it?  A nice man.”

John put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back, trying to gage her frustration pout.  It was nearing the level of ‘the only cases available are 2s, we ran out of chocolate biscuits, and John threw out your emergency cigarettes’.  It was best to talk her through it.  “How do you know he won’t be a nice man?  I mean, the assassin, sure.  Arnold and the banker- what was his name?  Carl?  They seemed innocent enough.”

Sherlock groaned, pushed into John’s stomach once more, then flopped onto her back, yelling at the ceiling.  “I already told you!  They are connected!”

“Yes.” John flexed her hand and tried to keep her voice level.  “But you never told me how.  And if you did, it was not to me.  It was to Billy the skull.”

Sherlock snapped her attention to the skull and glared as if it had personally wronged her.    

“Out loud, please,” John reminded her.

“The banker worked for the assassin.  He was the one who, quite illegally, deposited large sums of money into the killer’s offshore account in exchange for a plethora of hookers.”

“And how do you-”

“Joooohn!”

John lifted up her hands and apologized, “Please, finish!”

“Moriarty obviously employed the assassin and supplied the banker with his prostitutes.”

“Obviously.”

Sherlock glared and John mimed zipping her lips.

“Their connection was established through the cock rings.”

John snorted.

Sherlock rolled her eyes.  “Don’t be childish, John.  The brand of the rings holding up the assassin were the same as the ones left on the nightstand in the banker’s home.  A cherry left for us by Moriarty herself.”

“Can we not compare cock rings to cherries?”

“Once the connection is established the reason behind it becomes clear.  What else would a low level banker, easy to forget and makinging minimal money, have to do with an assassin?  He could barely afford a prostitute, let alone five at a time.”

“Five?” John had to interrupt.

“At least.  Based off the size of the bed and the nail polish left on the wall I would have said four.  Not to mention the glitter everywhere.  But the empty glasses with distinctly different shades of lipstick say otherwise.  Really, how did you not see it?”

John shook her head.  Amazed, as always.

“Haywire is trickier.  How is he connected to all this?  Nothing in his records connects him to the banker.  His email in unhackable, thanks to Moriarty, I’m sure.  He could have hired the assassin, but the motive is unclear.  Who did he have killed?  Who is the missing link?  Where is the missing data?  Why all the cocks?!”

Sherlock was gripping her hair by the end of it all, curled up against John’s thigh, kicking the cock on the wall again, aiming at the hilt of the knife jutting out of the balls.  John took pity and pet at her hands, trying to get her to stop pulling.  

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon,” John soothed, grabbed Sherlock gently by the wrist and freed her from the knot she was creating.  “Tomorrow we’ll lay out all the evidence from each case and tape them to the wall- eh-” She prematurely interrupted Sherlock’s protest, “We are not pinning them.  Last time you used a set of arrows and do I really need to mention the mess above my head right now?”

Sherlock sighed, pouted, and rolled onto her other side, frowning towards the fireplace.  “We’re out of tape.”

“Why are we- Never mind.  I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason all three rolls are gone.”

“Experiment,” Sherlock huffed.

John had to contain her fond chuckle.  “I’ll get more tomorrow before I meet Martin-”

“Marshall.”

“-for lunch.”

Sherlock did not appear to be moving, so John reached for the book closest to her and dove into a refresher course on new methods for treating hypothermia.


	8. Bulrush

 

**** John ran into the restaurant, her blonde hair flapping behind her, a brown paper bag clutched in her fist.   

“Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered, quickly scouring the tables.  

Martin was easy enough to find, being over six feet, hunched over his lunch, already half of it eaten.  She ran over to him and plopped into the seat opposite, ready to apologize all over again. 

Martin help up a hand, a smile on his face.  “I know,” he said. 

“Slept in.  Very late.  Clock wrong.”  John huffed and held up the paper bag.  “Tape.” 

“It’s fine,” he chuckled.  “It’s not the first time you’ve been late and it won’t be the last.”

John’s face fell.  He was right, of course.  She was never on time when a case was on.  Never on time, never there when he needed her, never  _ there _ even when she was physically there.  This was usually followed up by the breakup speech.  

Martin shook his head and reached across the table to touch her arm.  “It’s alright.  You get murderers off the streets.  If you were a copper, I think I would see you even less.  This,” he gestured between them, “-is good.  It’s only lunch.  You can eat your salad cold and go over your new case with Sherlock.”

John’s face twisted into a soppy smile.  “You really are too good for me.”

“I know,” Martin teased.  “Now, do I want to hear about the new case now or should I wait until I’m done eating?”

John rocked her head side to side.  “Not quite decent enough for public spaces.  There is quite a lot of cock involved.”

“Can I assume you do not mean chicken?”

“You can.” 

Martin’s face scrunched and he nodded, taking a sip of his drink.  “Alright then.  Tell me about your paying job.  Had any good patients recently?” 

John happily dove into her latest tale about the man with the green toe.  Martin was enthralled, cracking jokes at the perfect times, making her lose her breath and her face hurt from laughing.  He truly was the perfect man and deserved all the credit for it.  She knew she was going to marry him one day.  It was refreshing, to just know.  Comforting.  

“So,” Martin started, once they both had their breath back and were waiting for the check.  “How about Sherlock?  How is she?  DId you start that new experiment where she was going to tell you what to do?”

John’s face heated.  “Sherlock is alright.  This case has her frustrated.”

“Yeah,” Martin snorted.  “With all that cock, she must be confused.”

John grit her teeth.  He did not mean anything by it.  The virgin jokes were long coming and from everyone.  Sherlock ignored it and she told John to do the same.  

“We did start that experiment,” John continued abruptly.  “It went well, I think.”

“Good,” Martin said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.  

“How about your kids?”  John asked, changing the subject.  “Are they allowed to use the microscopes yet?”

Martin filled her in on the latest antics from his class and walked her back to 221 clasping his hand in hers.  It was easy and comfortable, the way she always felt in his company.  They shared a kiss outside the door that left Martin lingering.  

“I know you have a case,” he started, “But….”  He looked towards the second floor and back at her, lifting his eyebrows.  “I have no classes for the rest of the afternoon and no one would notice if I did not return to school.” 

John’s mouth fell open.  “Oh, no.  We can’t go up there.”

“I’ve only ever seen your flat twice since we’ve been dating.  One might think you’re trying to hide something from me.” 

“No, I’m trying to hide you from Sherlock.  Trust me.  She is in no mood for company and it will only end badly for all involved.  Another time, alright?”

Martin seemed to want to argue but bit it back and nodded, leaving her without so much as a peck.   John clasped the container full of her untouched salad and bag of tape as she watched him round the corner.  He did not turn around once.  

“Sherlock,” John unhappily called into the flat.

Sherlock came running, angrily spouting the entire way over.  “How long does it take you to do lunch when you don’t even eat anything?!  You don’t like salad unless it’s fruit!”   She grabbed the bag from John’s hand and stomped into the living room, tearing off pieces of newly acquired tape and carefully putting up pieces of evidence.  

John slouched in the couch and stared at her phone, wondering if she should text Martin to apologize.  Again. Twice in one day.  She was so pathetic at relationships.  It was a miracle he had her this long.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” Sherlock huffed.  “Just call him already.”

John wanted to argue back, but knew she was right.  She flipped to Martin’s ID and called, but the line was busy.  She closed out the phone and threw it on the opposite end of the sofa, slumping further. 

“I’m the worst girlfriend ever,” she muttered. 

Sherlock grunted, reaching high to tape pictures of each victim, pulling the tape a ridiculous length off the role and snipping it with her teeth.  “Tell it to Molly.  I don’t care.”

“Thanks,” John replied bitterly. 

“Oh, just-” Sherlock spun towards her and pointed to the kitchen.   “Occupy your thoughts somewhere else.  Clean the dishes or something.”

“Those are your dishes!  I cooked the stir fry days ago.  For you.  You have to do the dishes.”

“You ate most of it.”

“That doesn’t matter!”

Sherlock groaned and pulled at her locks, pacing back and forth once before reaching into her pocket.  “Put this on.”

John looked down to see the choker.  “What?!  No!”

“You had a bad date and need to clear your head.  I need you to be occupied so I can work.  So, yes!”

“You’re just going to make me do the dishes!  I’m not going to!”  After a short pause she belatedly added, “And it was not bad.” 

Sherlock shook it at her.  “I won’t make you do the dishes.  Now, put it on!”

“But-”

“I was planning for a scene later today anyway.  Just put it on and we’ll move it up to now.” 

John eyed the necklace and then looked towards the strewn paperwork, reaching from one corner of the room to the other.  “You can’t just make me sit in the corner and shut up.”

Sherlock rolled her entire head, exasperated beyond a simple eye roll.  “Well you can either put this on and go to the shops for food or I can drive you out with truths about how you are settling in your relationship with Maddox-”

“Martin.”

“-because he is boring, comfortable, and safe.”

John grit her teeth.  “You’ve never even met him, Sherlock.”

“What?  Of course I have.”

“No, you haven’t.  Over half a year together and he’s never met my flatmate because I’ve been too scared you’ll run him off.  Do you realize how sad that is?  I can’t even introduce my boyfriend to my best friend!”

Sherlock stepped back, her mouth falling open and her hands slipping to her sides.  She instantly left the world of the living, her eyes staring at nothing truly there, flickering at different parts of the air. 

“Sherlock?”

The Mind Palace trip only lasted a moment.  “You’re right,” she said shortly.  

“I-” John breathed, ready to yell, but stopped herself short.  “I am?”

Sherlock nodded.  “What if we made that your reward?  You go to the shops and in return I will go to dinner with you and Mahdi.”

“Martin,” John corrected, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.  Sherlock looked genuine, no ulterior motive clear to John anyhow, other than getting out of Sherlock’s hair for an hour.  It would be nice to finally have them meet, in more than just reading each other’s text messages.  

Sherlock seemed to read her mind and stretched out the necklace.  “When you return you can delete that blasted social media page.  I can only handle so many morons in one day.”

John allowed to the smile to pull across her cheeks and snatched the necklace, easily clasping it into place.  “You know, I'm not sure we’re doing this whole Dom, sub thing right.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  Of course we’re doing it right.”  Sherlock slumped back to her paperwork, no longer bothered to look up at John.  “We’re doing it our way.  Now, your safeword, if you so need it, is bulrush.  Repeat it back to me.”

“Bulrush?”  John’s eyes drifted to the ceiling.  “Like the weed?”

“Not as a question.  Try again.”

John sighed and bowed her head, intent on getting that dinner date.  “Bulrush, miss.” 

“Good.  Now go to the store.  I trust you don’t need a list.  Get healthy things you’re always griping about.  Fruit, vegetables, things like that.  And cotton swabs.  And B12 and iron tablets.  I’ve noticed your nails are thinning.” 

John was tempted to take a peek at her fingertips but simply nodded instead.  It could wait.  

“My credit card is in the kitchen.”  She spun towards her wall and tapped each paper taped so far.  “Grab it and leave.  Take your phone.  Text if you need me.”

John checked the pocket of her jeans to assure her mobile was tucked away and jogged to the kitchen to grab Sherlock’s mysterious black card.  She knew it was not in Mycroft’s name but John thought it probably came from his account anyway.  Sherlock would be able to get away with something like that.   

The shops were nearly empty, it being mid Tuesday.  John pushed her cart through the isles, humming to herself, texting Martin her apology and promising she was already on her way to rectifying things and Martin would see the inside of her apartment soon.  

Martin replied a few minutes later.   _ I’m glad you two could work things out.  I’ll be busy with conferences for the next few weeks.  I’ll be happy to have that dinner sometime after.  You can tell Sherlock I’m dying to meet her.  xo _

_ I won’t do that or she’ll take you on as a case. ;) - J _

Texting Martin may not have been allowed, but the rules were not very clear this time around.   With this scene being so haphazardly thrown together and taking place both separated and out of the flat, John was fairly certain this was not completely official.  This would just be an easy, everyday activity that paid off in the end.  No need to look too far into it. 

John was thrown from her thoughts when a bulking hulk of a man stepped in front of her cart reaching for the pickles, nearly making her collide with his head.  

“Sorry,” she said, even knowing it was not her fault. 

The man turned to her and cocked his head to the side.  “Joan Watson?”

John squinted.  The man was big, true, but he was also holding himself straight, his feet shoulder width apart with his right hand slipping closer to his waistline than his left.  Warning bells were ringing and John wondered how many pickle jars breaking over this guy’s head would knock him out.  

“Who’s asking?” John backed away, one trainer falling behind the other.  

The man smirked and his hand dove towards his waist.  John cursed not bringing her gun with her and dove for the nearest jar, but the man held up his hands, producing only a small black mobile. 

“A friend,” the man said, holding the phone out.  

Well, Mike, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Molly all had his phone number already and she doubted they would be the type to hire this kind of muscle for a telegram.  Doubtful it was anything related to the army.  Mycroft played along with being Sherlock’s arch enemy so he would never refer to John as something as simple as a friend.  Which only left one option.

She cringed as she reached for the device and held it up to her ear.  “Yes?”

“HeeeeelllloooooOOOOooo Johnny boy!” 

“James,” John greeted fondly, her teeth clamped together.  “We both remember I’m still a girl, right?”

“Oh, Joan,” Moriarty sighed into her end of the phone, her soft Irish lilt spoiled by her slimey murmurs.  “Are you still mad about that one little op-ed piece?”

Now that she mentioned it, yes, very mad.  Only John’s friends called her John, the rest of the world knew her as Joan.  So when Moriarty decided to publish an article leaking her nickname to the world entitled,  _ Joan or John?  Is Sherlock Holmes’ Assistant A Man, Transexual, Or The Butch In Their Relationship? _ , and splashed it with larger than life projections on the House of Parliament, throwing Mycroft through hoops to get it down, things had become a bit more complicated in her day to day life.

“I already redacted the assistant title,” Moriarty huffed, pouting like a child.  “It was changed to partner.  Much more suiting.”

John’s teeth ground together and she snarled out, “Thanks.”

“Oh you are so welcome, my dear!”  Moriarty laughed chaotically, one that crescendoed into nowhere and abruptly stopped just as John was going for her phone.  “Johnny,” she warned.  “There will be no texting Sherlock.  Hand your phone over to the nice gentleman in front of you.  Well, I say nice, but I’m afraid he’s rather not.”

As Moriarty laughed at her own joke again, John slipped her phone from her pocket and delicately placed the device in the man’s outstretched hand.  Now that John was looking, she could see small nude wire leading up to the man’s ear.  John shook away the memory of a similar wire clinging to her ear, Moriarty’s sickeningly gleeful voice telling her what to say and when to say it, the smell of chlorine burning the back of her throat.  

“Don’t look so glum, Johnny,” Moriarty's voice lifted, all teeth and growls.  “All I want to do is talk.  Take a ride in the car with me and no one will get hurt.  No kidnapping.”  She sang, “I promise.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Yes you are,” Moriarty cooed.  “If you don’t follow that hunk of a bear in front of you, then I’m going to have him shoot the boy behind register three.  He looks rather a lot like your Marvin, doesn’t he?”

John checked her six to find that the man working register three had a blissful ignorant smile on his face, helping an older woman with her bags.  He was younger than Martin but tall and with a similarly round face.  

“Why is it so hard for you and Sherlock to learn my boyfriend’s name?”

Moriarty giggled like John had made the best joke she had heard all day.  The sound continued to pierce her eardrum as she followed the big bear of man to the back of a large SUV parked just along the street, waiting. 

With one last look towards the closest CCTV, John sucked in a breath and entered the vehicle, eyes flashing everywhere.  The back of the SUV was closed off from the front, seats facing both backwards and forwards.  There was a trunk behind her, empty, but at least no one could lock her in a boot.  The big man followed her in and pressed her against the opposite door, a door with no handles and no window control.  Windows all over were tinted nearly black, making John question how the person driving knew what was behind them.  

Promise or not, this felt like a kidnapping.

The car jerked and pulled from the curb.  Fantastic. 

“You look rather rumpled today.  Did your boy Mu-”

“Martin,” John snapped, searching for any cameras, finding one in the top passenger side corner.  “His name is Martin.”

Moriarty’s voice dropped to a dangerous level.  She did not like being interrupted.  “Did he fuck you into the mattress?  Or were you up sucking his cock all night long?”

John glared daggers at the camera.  

“Oh, that’s right,” Moriarty chuckled.  “You’re not attracted to your own boyfriend.  Have you considered you might be a LESbian?”

The car swayed to the left and John tried to remember the path they took, but she knew it was hopeless.  She envied Sherlock’s ability to have a conversation with a deadly maniac, keep an eye on the hired help in the car of no escape, and keep a map of their route memorized.  

“Did you fuck him because he bought you that necklace?” 

John’s jaw clenched and she automatically tugged at the lace circling her neck, glancing at the man next to her to see if he saw.  He was too busy looking straight ahead at nothing.  

“Do you people have nothing better to do than talk about my sex life?  At this rate, I’ll be expecting a copy of the Kama Sutra from Mycroft.”

Moriarty screamed into her ear, her laughter reaching truly new ear piercing levels.  “Oh Johnny, this is why I keep you around,” she sighed, calming down.  “I really need to revisit keeping you as my pet.”

John’s grip on the phone tightened. 

If jokes were the only thing keeping her alive, John would sincerely need to consider stopping by the bookstore for a copy of  _ Make Your Maniac Giggle _ !  If they had such a thing, that is. Then again, being Moriarty's pet could only be a blood infused nightmare and there was no reason to invite such a hell. 

“Ohhhh,” Moriarty gasped in a way that reminded John far too much of Sherlock’s deduction o-face sound.  “You already are someone’s pet, aren’t you?” 

John squirmed back into her seat and fell towards the door as the car turned again.  

“That’s Sherlock’s necklace.”  Moriarty spoke rapidly into her ear, clearly reading every single one of John’s conscious and subconscious reactions.  “Personally, I think it would look much better dangling from her fragile neck, but I suppose it works for you.  It went better with the dress you wore at my club.  Yes, John.   _ My _ sex club.  One of my more elegant establishments.  I must remember to thank you both properly for removing that scum from within her walls.”

If  _ I miss you _ love notes were sent to them via dead body with the heart cut out and tied off with a dick bow, John could only imagine the horrors of a proper thank you.

“My way of doing things would have been much less… public, of course,” she continued.  

“Of course,” John nodded shortly and glanced at the bear again.  If he knew any of what they were talking about, he did not show it.  

“And I thought this would be a boring conversation,” Moriarty crooned.   “A thinly veiled threat here, a broken bone there, all tied off with a hint only Sherlock would understand.  Yet, here we are.  And to think I thought you were playing the part of undercover spy.  How silly of me,” she laughed again, dipping immediately back into her vicious snarl.  “When really, you were Sherlock’s play thing all along.”

John sucked in a breath to argue, but there was a trick to talking with deducing geniuses and the bear man next to her had it right.  Never show any emotion. 

“Oh!  Only after the club!”  Moriarty actually clapped into the phone.  “My, my Johnny.  My little establishment did that for the two of you?  Finally bringing you out of the bisexual closet!  I’m flattered!”  Moriarty sucked in a breath and moaned lewd and long, “So it was Sherlock who fucked you into the mattress then.”

John stared straight at the camera, unblinking, as stoney as possible.  The army did come with training, after all. 

“Cheating on your boyfriend, Watson?  Color me impressed.”  Her voice dropped to a whisper, “But if all you needed was some domination, you could have just asked.  Daddy is more than willing to play with you.  In fact…”

John could not help her eyes widening.  Not good.  Very much not good. 

“I know I said I wouldn’t kidnap you, pudding, but this changes things.”  

The car spun violently, throwing John into the man next to her and nearly to the floor beneath her.  No seatbelts and 180 turns did not mix!  Which caused John’s already racing heart to kick into overdrive.  They were turning around.  

Very, very, very much not good.

“Oh, who am I kidding!”  Moriarty screamed, angry but still laughing.  “I don’t have time to play with you right now.”

The car spun again, this time sending John down to the floor, hair flying into her mouth and her leg catching beneath the seat.  When the car evened out, she saw the man had not moved.  Which was completely unfair.  He probably had a warning in his ear. 

The phone had slipped across the mat but the man would not move his foot so John had to reach between him to get it.  

“I do so love tossing you around.”  Moriarty hummed contentedly.  “Another time, maybe.”

John pushed back into the seat, hoping her hair would hide any flinch that promise may have caused.   

“This has been charming,” Moriarty continued, sighing to herself.  “But we are reaching your stop.  We wouldn’t want to alarm Big Brother, now would we?  I hope Sherlock is enjoying our latest game.”  She snorted.  “I must admit, this one does rather tickle me pink.”

“Because of all the cocks,” John sighed. 

Moriarty giggled high.  “Foreign territory for her, I know.  But you must admit, it does warm your heart to see I have a humorous side, does it not?”

John went back to glaring at the camera.  

“I hope Sherly doesn’t drive herself into a tizzy over this.  The answer is soooooo obvious.”  The car pulled to a stop and Moriarty gave one final sigh.  “Tell her I’ll be seeing you both soon.  Ciao, darling.”

John slapped the phone into the man’s lap and held out her hand for her own.  The man was quick about it and shifted to the other side of the car, under the camera, allowing John to push out.  They were at 221, directly in front of the door.  

The car silently pulled away and John looked back, trying to catch a plate number.  She memorized it but was sure it would not come to matter very soon.  

When she reached the top of the stairs she saw the living room was finally decorated in papers, pins used despite the rolls of tape she had purchased.  Sherlock was sprawled across the couch in her open dressing gown, wearing her usual shorts and bralette combination, staring at the ceiling.  

“You didn’t buy the groceries,” Sherlock said, disapproval lacing her icy tone. 

John swallowed once and said, “Bulrush.” 

Sherlock flipped around and sprung to her feet, eyes taking in every inch of John’s frame, looking for clues.  Her face flashed from concern, to understanding, to absolute fury.  “What did she do?!”

John told her every detail she could remember, right down the license plate.  

“Why now?” Sherlock muttered, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.  

“She knows, Sherlock,” John mumbled back, her chin resting on her legs in her corner of the sofa, her eyes following Sherlock’s movements, gown flowing behind her like a cape, flashing her panties to half of London.  “About us.”

Sherlock waved her off.  “She thinks she knows.  We are not having sex.”

“Even better,” John tucked her forehead between her knees and grunted to her thighs.  “The new headlines will read  _ Sherlock the Dominatrix _ or  _ Can John Watson Be A Man If He’s A Sub?  _ or  _ Holmes/Watson Relationship Confirmed! _ or-”

“Who cares?” Sherlock snapped, threw her hands in the air, and paced faster.  

“I do!”  John unfolded her limbs, flapping her arms around.  “I’m not like you Sherlock.  I can’t turn it off.  I care.  I don’t like her knowing or thinking she knows or being able to snatch me off the street whenever she wants or wanting to play with me or promising to see us later.  I don’t like any of it!”

Sherlock finally froze.  One bare foot slipped in front of the other as she made her way over, walking on her toes like the dancer she pretended not to be unless undercover at a sex club.  She folded into a squat and looked up at John, waiting to catch her eyes. 

“Nothing is going to happen to you.”  Sherlock promised, her voice low and deep, her gaze strong and certain.  “I promise you.”

John shook her head back and forth, grabbed her knees with her fingers, and rubbed harshly at her skin.  “You can’t promise that.”

“Do you trust me?”

John flinched, her mouth dropping open.  “Of course I do.  You know I do.”

“Trust me now.”  Sherlock reached out and snatched one of John’s clammy hands between her own, clasping until the chill of Holmes’ poor circulation soaked into her skin.  “You are safe with me.  There is no need to be scared.”

“I’m not-”

“Moriarty is a mentally ill psychopath intent on making the world her playhouse while obsessing over you and I.  Of course you are.”  Sherlock pulled her hand closer, refusing to let John argue.  “But you are with me now.  You are home.  You have your gun and you are a warrior who knows how to use it.  Anyone who walks in that door would meet a force to be reckoned with.  I am safe with you.  We will beat her.  Nothing else matters.”

John looked to her gun, resting on the cushion next to her, loaded and ready to fire at a moment’s notice.  Yes, they were as safe as the two of them could be, being danger addicts -which was just how they liked it.  It would take an incredible force to move them from 221B. More than what Moriarty had to offer.


	9. Siblings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all mistakes are due to me because while my beta is wise, I am not and sometimes ignore her wisdom.   
>  Praise Jaharra and present her with fandom cookies!

The next few days were relatively peaceful.  Sherlock spent most of her time trying to connect the cases, refusing to eat or sleep like a reasonable person, forcing John to make snarky comments about feeding off the energy of the universe.  

Shifts at the clinic were as generic as they came, but were almost constantly interrupted by texts from Sherlock. 

_ I ate a grape.  I hope you’re happy.  -SH _

_ We do not have grapes.  I’m afraid even I do not know what I ate.  I may need to visit you soon. -SH _

_ I’m coloring in the cock on the wall. -SH _

_ It really is not your colour. - SH _

_ Finished investigating extended Haywire family.  Nothing.  -SH _

_ I may set fire to the tablecloth. -SH _

_ I know we don't have a tablecloth. -SH _

_ The rug will do. -SH _

_ Don’t ask what I’ve been using your red jumper as.  -SH _

_ Also not your colour. -SH _

John suspected the texts were as much for her to know Sherlock was safe as they were a way for Sherlock to distract herself from her constant frustration.  They had the added benefit of brightening John’s day as well, if the texts about her jumper and the cock were excluded.  It was also nice to have the chance to reassure Sherlock that Moriarty had not shown up at the clinic disguised as an old man with the intent of kidnapping her, again. 

_ You touch a single one of any of my jumpers and I’ll cut one leg off all your suit bottoms. -JW _

_ Which is everything you own. -JW _

The constant barrage of texts ceased when John had only twenty minutes left in her shift.  

The clock ticked by slowly as John counted the seconds.  The average text was sent at least every seven minutes.  Sherlock was already over the limit by three.  If she did not text in the next two, John was going to skip out early.  Sarah would be furious, but John would never forgive herself if she was not there to keep Sherlock from being at the receiving end of Moriarty’s threats.  

_ The Blob is here.  Bring a taser. -SH _

John was relieved but had to groan aloud.  Skipping out early seemed like the only option or Sherlock really would set fire to the rug  _ and  _ her jumper.  

When John returned home she could see it was too late.  A bucket was sitting in the middle of the living room, a small suspicious string of smoke spiraling towards the ceiling.  John coughed and flapped the air away from her nose.  

“Why does it smell like burnt hair?”  She asked aloud but Sherlock was too busy glaring at her brother from her chair to answer, a wooden clip plugging the end of her nose.  

Mycroft sat in John’s chair, his umbrella resting between two of his fingers, twirling next to his side.  He did not turn to speak to John, simply stared forward, uncaring, as if on a beach in the Bahamas, unaffected by anything the petty little universe could waft his way. 

“Forgive my dear sister,”  Mycroft called, offering his usual politician’s smile when John came into view to peek into the can.  “She tried to smoke me out.  Needless to say, it did not work.”

The pile of black ash had an unnatural green tint to it and John backed away, shuffling towards Sherlock who proffered a second wooden clip.  

Mycroft sighed dramatically, one manicured eyebrow raised towards Sherlock.  “Oh, sister mine, whenever will you learn to control your emotions?  You are above your hormones, are you not?”

“Oh, brother mine,” Sherlock snapped, not deterred by the sound of her stuffed up voice.  “Whenever will you learn not to eat an entire bundt cake for breakfast?  You are above your fat arse, are you not?”

This game was not new.  Mycroft would say something sexist to get a rise out of his sibling and Sherlock would snap at the bait, usually with something regarding Mycroft’s very calculated appearance, and the two would stare at each other -arguing on a level John could not begin to understand.  

“Harry and I used to wrestle when we were mad,” John said and received matching sibling glares for her comment.  She raised her hands and retreated to the windows, content to leave them to it until they were ready to drag themselves down to her earthly level. 

Opening all the windows did little to alleviate the smell, but the extra lighting did throw shadows on the wall that made the cock nearly disappear.  That was an added bonus.  

“I won’t do it!” Sherlock finally yelled, breaking the silence, ripping her nose clip off and tossing it aside. Her nose coiled at the smell but she was clearly trying hard not to show it.  “I am already working on a case, Cakey.  I don’t have time for your petty, personal whims.”

“Joan-”

“No.”  Sherlock threw out her hands, physically blocking John’s body with nothing more than her fingers.  “Don’t drag her into this.”

“Into what?” John asked, contemplating removing her nose clip.  It was pinching. 

“One of my-” Mycroft paused, seeming to contemplate the perfect word, “-colleges, shall we say?  Has made himself rather a nuisance.  Something of a hypocrite if I am being frank.  He is actively trying to rewrite measures taken to prevent those of a certain lifestyle from being discriminated against when making purchases at their local shops.”

“A homophobic homosexual wants to allow people to throw queers out of their establishments for holding hands or existing or the like,” Sherlock clarified.

“Well that’s not good,” John said but Sherlock threw up a hand to prevent her from expressing any more sentiment. 

“And what, pray tell, dear brother, do you get out of all this that allows you the liberty of picking a political side?”

Mycroft nodded.  “If these horrific actions-” Sherlock snorted “-are stopped in time, I may receive some funding for one my smaller projects.”

“We’re calling an MI6 mission to inner Russia small now, are we?”

Mycroft ignored his sister and turned to John.  “What I get does not change the fact that this man should be stopped before he does irreparable damage.”

“What would you like us to do?” John asked, ignoring Sherlock’s wounded glare. 

Mycroft smiled something closer to a human smile and looked back at Sherlock, communicating through their minds once again.  

“You are disgusting,” Sherlock growled and fidgeted in her chair, her fingers scraping along her arm rests.  “Just because John is well endowed, does not mean you should stare at her breasts.”

“What?” John squeaked and looked down.  They both ignored her.  Her tits were really not  _ that _ big.  

“Yes, John,” Sherlock huffed, “We can all see perfectly well that you are a C cup.  You would require a lot more work in order to look like an attractive man.”

“Exactly,” Mycroft agreed.

“I what now?” John hated this part of the conversation, where they were both talking like she was actually following.  

Sherlock huffed, gracefully bowing down to her level of intelligence in order to explain it all.  “I am to seduce this man dressed as a man myself and you are to snap the pictures.”

“You’re going to… dress like a man.”  John was not sure she’d seen that disguise before. 

Sherlock ignored her.  “Just because my breasts hardly exist doesn't mean you have the right to pull me from my work.”  

John looked at Sherlock’s chest, a blue silk blouse draped under her suit.  It was hardly fair to say her breasts did not exist.  There was a supple, gentle curve to them, enough to pull the fabric from her chest before it dipped into her slim stomach.   

Sherlock continued, “You should just sleep with him and have it done.  If you look at him the way you look at blackberry scones, I’m sure you’ll have it over with within the hour.”

Mycroft ignored her, tapping away with his umbrella.  “I considered hiring a PI but I’m afraid they may be tempted to be bought out.  Unlike-”  Sherlock huffed in a breath but Mycroft charged on past her, “Joan.”  Mycroft turned back to her.  “I trust you will prevent my dear sister from giving in to her wily ways?”

“Goodbye, Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled, throwing herself from her chair and untucking her shirt, ripping buttons from their holes at lightning speed.   Undressing was always her surefire way of making her brother disappear.  

“You can send the jpegs directly to me,” Mycroft said while rising.  He nodded at each of them.  “Good day, Sherlock, Joan.”

Sherlock threw a book at the door as it closed behind him, blouse flapping in the breeze.  “I have better things to do and he knows it.”

“We’d be helping people,” John reminded her, picking the book back up.  

“We’d be helping feed his pastry addiction!”

“Sherlock,” John warned. 

“Fine!” she spat and flopped onto the sofa, throwing her arms over her face and chest.  

John let her pout and perused the docket left in her chair by Mycroft all about the Right Honorable David Brone MP. 

Sherlock lifted her head long enough to add, “But if one joke is made about him not being honorable after all, I will refuse!”


	10. Short

The day they were meant to catch the dishonorable David “The Prat” Brone -John was still allowed to make internal jokes- John had a shift at the clinic.  Sherlock texted her non-stop, but this time it was an attempt to hurry her along, nothing as innocent as making sure she had not been kidnapped.  

John finished her entire shift, thank you very much, and slumped into the flat, hoping this would be an easy case.  All she really wanted to do was eat some food and pass out on top of the history of Arnold Haywire’s bank statements from the past 14 years.  The man had an absolutely unhealthy obsession with ordering clean underwear.  

Martin had also texted.   _ Let me know when you get home safe xoxo _

The main room was empty, as was the kitchen, so John slumped over to the bathroom where she could hear the running of water.  She opened the door and froze, jumping back in alarm and apologizing.  “Sorry, sorry.  Didn’t know Sherlock had-”  She froze, halfway to closing the door on who she assumed to be a client, but caught the man smirking in a very familiar way.  “Sherlock?”

“I look good then?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to her body, though John knew it was more of a statement.  

Despite Sherlock’s self-identified lack of breasts, tall frame, and constant wearing of suits, she always looked very feminine.  Clothes always hugged her perfectly, her makeup accentuating her sharp eyes and rounded lips, and her hair, while usually a perfect mess, always framed her killer cheekbones and jawline.  Even dressed and looking like a man, she still somehow managed to keep that. 

The clothes on her now were baggy and worn.  Jeans that were carefully one size bigger than necessary sat over a dark pair of trainers.  A bit of boxer peeked over the edge of her black belt, hiding under a dark  _ The The _ band t-shirt.  Her arms were covered by a thick leather jacket that hung not unattractively, stopping short of hands with unpainted fingernails.  Makeup had played a part in her face.  Her brows were bushier, her eyes rounder, and her lips were nude, fading into the shadows across her jaw.  It was clear she had no beard but the effect made it seem as if she had a tiny bit of stubble ready to come in at any moment.  Her hair was now atop her head, still perfectly messy, but sticking up in every direction and no longer than the top of her ears. 

“How did you get your hair like that?”  John marvelled, realizing she was staring.  “Did you cut it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”  Sherlock looked back in the mirror to fix a wayward strand, her voice somehow not quite matching her new masculine appearance.   “It was easy.”

John looked around at the mess of bobby pins and the empty bottle of hairspray tipped over on the floor.  Sure, easy.  “Well you look great.  Except for the lack of adam’s apple.” 

“Scarf,” she replied simply and shifted her gaze to John in the mirror.  “I can pass for a shaved effeminate man with an obsession for a band Borne loves and a passion for painting as soon as I splash color on my hands.  You are more difficult.”

“Why?”  John asked, the smile not leaving her face.  “I’m just changing my shirt.”

“John,” Sherlock started, as if it literally pained her to need to explain herself.  “The point of this is to catch him kissing a man.  One of us-”

“No,” John shifted back to the door, already seeing where this was going.  “Not one of us.  You.  You are kissing, I am taking the picture.”

“Our odds are greatly increased if-”

“You said my tits were too big already!” John argued, crossing her arms over her chest.  “I can’t dress like a man!”

“I said it would be more difficult to make you an attractive man.  Duct tape, baggy clothes, and facial hair.  Low lighting will help.”  

No way.  There was absolutely no way John was going to dress up as a man.  Which was exactly why she was sitting on a stool, dressed in jeans too big and a sweater too bulky, as Sherlock glued tiny cut up hairs to her very itchy face.  

“How did you learn to do this?”

“The internet is around for a reason, John.  Drag kings make plenty of videos.”

John pulled at the collar of her sweater.  “Why do I have to wear this?  It’s hot outside.”

“It’s cool at night, it hides the fact that you don’t have chest hair, and the duct tape doesn’t show.  I thought your military outfit-”

“Uniform.”

“-would work best, but I’m afraid it fits you too well.”

John shifted, her arms pressing uncomfortably against her tits.  It was unnatural for them to rest in her armpits.  “Then why do I have to have a goatee?”

“Because your face is too round and feminine to pass without facial hair and I only have so much rabbit fur.  Are there any other questions?” Sherlock snapped.

John fidgeted again and said, “Yes, actually.  What about our voices?  We sound like girls.”

Sherlock hummed, the note dropping into a lower register, her voice tinged with an American accent.  “Not a problem for me, sugar.”

Alright, Sherlock sounded like a man.  A very girly man, but a man.  And that accent was absolutely ridiculous, it made John need to giggle. 

“What?” Sherlock asked, snapping back to her usual voice.  “Not good?”

“You sound like John Wayne!” John laughed. 

“Who?”

John laughed harder.  When she could finally catch her breath she asked, “What about me?  I can’t change my voice much.”

“Don’t talk as much.”

“But if I’m supposed to seduce this man, shouldn’t I talk to him?”

“How do you normally seduce men?”

John paused and cocked her head to the side.  “Usually tits come into play.”

“Please resist whipping them out,” Sherlock deadpanned.  “Here,” she turned and handed her a stuffed tube sock. 

“What’s this?”

“Put it in your pants.”

“What?!”  John shoved the symbolic penis back at her.  “No way!  I am not stuffing a tube sock down my pants!”

“You must,” Sherlock argued, pushing it back.  “It changes your gait and you can thrust it out while flirting.”

“Sherlock,” John whined.  “I’m not cut out for this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  Of course you are.  You used to flirt all the time before you dated Malcolm.”

“Martin.  And that was flirting as a girl.  I don’t know how to flirt as a guy, especially with another guy.”

“It’s all the same,” Sherlock huffed, moved behind John, and stopped her from looking in the mirror.  “If you’d like, we could make a game out of it.”

John’s eyes flashed upwards, half expecting to see the choker in Sherlock’s hands.  “I don’t think the lace would go with this outfit, Sherlock.”

“Not what I meant,” she replied wryly.  “Though, now that you mention it, you do need something to distract from your neck and that would make this tedious night more interesting.”

“Sherlock-”

“Just because we are leaving 221 does not mean we are going to a sex club.  Everything I have you do will be perfectly acceptable according to common pub social norms. You have no need to worry.”

That seemed like an understatement. John always had need to worry.  “What do I get?”

“As your reward?” Sherlock asked, John nodded.  “Something you want, I promise.  As far as your punishment, I’m afraid I’ll have to be a bit more creative.”  She contemplated for all of two seconds before saying,  “Since playing the part you dress is the objective, I believe it should fit the crime.  Every time you disappoint me tonight, I will choose an outfit for you to wear for a full day.”

“That’s-” John almost asked if that was it.  The devious look in Sherlock’s eyes suggested her idea of an outfit was not necessarily going to be something John found acceptable.  “Alright.”

“Good.”  Sherlock promptly grabbed a brush and started combing out John’s hair.  “Would you prefer a man-bun or a wig?”

A man-bun would go with the goatee getup but John cringed.  Not her cup of tea.  “Wig.”

Sherlock nodded once and spun towards a small box balancing on the toilet, speaking over her shoulder, making sure John did not turn to look at herself.  “I believe we shall stick with blonde.  It matches your eyebrows and rabbit fur.”

“Well it has to match the rabbit fur.”  John smiled when Sherlock did not laugh.  Sometimes the jokes just flew right by her.  

The wig was dirty blonde and straight, parted on the side and short enough to land somewhere around the middle of her ears.  Sherlock went back behind John and used the mass of scattered pins to pin her natural hair on top of her head.  John fiddled with the wig in her hands, threading out all the snarls. 

“I’ve wondered about cutting my hair short,” John said conversationally, unable to watch Sherlock work with her head down.  “Really short.  I love my hair but it does get in the way.  I always seem to be chasing someone.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sherlock huffed.  “If you want to, do it.”

“It’s a big change and I might not like it.”

“That’s what wigs are for, are they not?”  

John looked over at the box of wigs and back to her hands.  “Well, there are certain stereotypes that go with a cut like that.”

“Like what?”

John huffed.  “Like you’re a rebel or… you know.”

Sherlock’s nose crinkled up.  “A rebel?”

“That’s not the- I mean.  I don’t want to appear as something I’m not.”

“A girl who wants her hair short?”

“No.”

“John,” Sherlock sighed the sigh of the ever-patient.  “Use your words.”

“Gay.”

Sherlock tilted her head to the side, processing this new information.  “Harry has long hair.”

“It’s not all gay women, Sherlock.  It’s the butch ones.”

“And Harry is not butch?”

“Well, she kind of is, but that’s not the point.”  John sighed.  Why did she insist on trying to have ‘girl talks’ with Sherlock?  It was a habit she could never seem to break.  

“My hair is short,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, but it’s pretty.”

Sherlock’s hands froze and a pin clinked against the ground tiles.  It took another beat for her to hum out, “Thank you?”

John smiled shortly and went back to tugging at the wig.  “And I don’t think it would be well-received.” 

Sherlock smacked her lips together.  “Would this have anything to do with Mur-”

“Martin.”

“-Murphy’s archaic views?”

The last time she brought it up to Martin was after a weekend stroll around the park.  London had been its constant rainy self and she had broken her only hair tie.  The strands were sticking and everything was frizzing and it had been a complete nuisance. Which lead John to wish she had just cut it already as she had contemplated so many times before, not the least of which in the hot desert sun pulling bullets out of the wounded.  

“Let me,” Sherlock said, never adding ‘guess’ because she truly never was.  “He said long hair suited you better, he liked it the way it was, especially the fringe, and with a nickname like John it was best to leave it as is.  The rumours of your relationship with me were at a peak and he no doubt cited this gay stereotype that I have never heard of.  He joked about breaking it off with you and you have not brought it up since.”

“Right, as always,” John sighed, tempted to touch her hair, but Sherlock had already put the mesh cap on.  “I thought of dying it black just to spite.” 

Sherlock hummed and set the wig in place, pinning it down tight.  “I think you would look like John no matter what you decided to do.”

“Thanks.”  Coming from Sherlock, that was as good as it got. 

The silence that followed was comfortable and tender, as if they were both unsure of how to proceed with this new, near-sentimental territory. 

Unexpectedly, Sherlock was the first to break the silence.  “I always preferred my hair long.”

“Really?” John squinted, trying to see past the man makeup and picture locks spiralling down Sherlock’s back.  “Then why do you cut it?”

“Two reasons.”  Sherlock stepped back to finish up John’s look.  “Much as I use my makeup as a tool, so I do with my hair.  While I do not look masculine, I appear less feminine.  I keep my ability to flirt with nothing more than a twist of a lock, but remind everyone I am as powerful as any man.  In the world dominated by the slower sex, I am an outcast.  I am smarter than any man and it intimidates them.”

“Along with your personality,” John added.

“Indeed.  I use my appearance and my words to ensure they know I am their equal.  I am not alone in this.  Moriarty does the same.”

“She goes a bit farther, I’d say,” John hissed. 

“She chose a male name for a reason.  Almost all are ignorant to the fact that she is indeed a she.”

Sherlock could be such a feminist for someone who steered clear of politics.  Of course, if John were to bring that up, she would claim no such association and simply say she was lecturing John on how to use presentation when working a case.   It would always lead back to deductive reasoning and enhancing John’s skills. 

John smiled softly to herself and asked, “And the second reason?”

Sherlock deadpanned, “I burnt my hair using the bunsen burner.”

John exploded with laughter, doubling over and nearly bursting her duct tape.  Sherlock could not help joining in her giggles, until they were both red in the face and tearing up.  

Finally, when they had both calmed, Sherlock made the big reveal, spinning John to the mirror. 

“I look like a man,” John said, poking at her face and making sure not to mess anything up.  “You gave me a different bone structure and everything.”

Sherlock hummed. 

“I’m not a pretty man,” John said, shaking her head.  “I look a bit like Shaggy from Scooby Doo.”  She poked at the itchy rabbit hair, sticking to her chin with spirit gum.  “I would not date me.”

“Confidence is key,” Sherlock said.   “We have five minutes before we need to leave.  Work on your voice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know (almost) the entire scene with Sherlock/John talking about hair while she's putting on her wig could have been cut and this could have merged with last chapter but I am just fascinated by the role hair plays in feminism.  This convo would happen, maybe not at this time, but the girls were telling me to leave it in so... it has its purpose for later on.  
> 
> This is all to say, send me pictures of your awesome hair!  I am always looking for inspiration :D


	11. Amaryllis

John ended up squeaking more often than not. “John.  Jo-ohn.”  Or cracking her voice.  “John.  Wa- Wa- Watson.  Son.”

Sherlock shook her head, busy fiddling with the strings in her purple and blue painted hands, wrapping and braiding them together.  The cabbie was getting a kick out of it though. 

Sherlock told the cabbie they were a part of a theatre troupe recording a video for their blog about how appearances make a difference when out it public, adding it was a part of their series on equality and sexism in the workplace. 

John had nothing to add to that.

“You got to open up your throat before you try, mate,” the cabbie said.  Apparently he wanted to be an actor growing up and had plenty of wisdom to share from his previous classes and lessons.  “Try breathing air out before you speak.  Really push from your diaphragm.”

As John played with her register, she had to wonder what Sherlock had planned.  She was certain at this point that they were doing the D/s thing wrong, that it required more talking if the internet was correct, but so far things had been tame enough for her not to be worried.  After all, most of the blogs about D/s were more about the bondage and the masochist side of BDSM.  Compared to those people, what they were doing was child’s play.  

Well, child’s play except for the Daddy’s Little Girl world.  That was a level of BDSM beyond her.  

This time they had at least talked previous to the scene.  Sherlock did promise John would not look more of a fool than she already did as an ugly man.  The punishment was laid out as clear as day, which was appreciated -though she was not sure what Sherlock considered disappointing behavior.  

John was impressed by how slow Sherlock was taking things.  Then again, she had been distracted by cases.  There was no telling what would happen once the cocks case -and she really hoped she could come up with a better name for her blog- was completed and Sherlock had nothing but boredom on her mind.

That promptly brought back the memory of Moriarty offering herself over as ‘daddy’ so she could toss John around.  John cringed.  Moriarty loved to throw phrases around.  Daddy.  Lesbian.  Bisexual.  John was not bi.  Not that there was anything wrong with that.  But just because she was not as active fucking her boyfriend as she would have been twenty years ago, does not mean she suddenly wanted a dramatic change in scenery.  

Sherlock snapped her out of her thoughts when she smacked John across the arm.  John spun and saw the strands Sherlock had been braiding were small strips of dark green suede, knotted into a necklace that looked masculine enough for a man to wear. 

“Very nice, William,” John said, trying out her new voice and calling Sherlock by her undercover name.  She switched back to her normal female tone and added, “I really shouldn’t talk, should I?”

“No, that was brill!” The cabbie said and added, “We’re nearly there by the way.  I’ll give you my card so I can pick you up.  I want to hear how it all goes.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes, for only John to see, and motioned for her to turn around.  She spoke into her ear as she tied the small band off.  “You are allowed to talk as much as you need tonight, though you are correct in limiting that.  You still must do as I say without question.  As I will be busy, if you need to ask a question or say your safeword, you may text it.  I will check all messages as soon as possible.  Your safe word is amaryllis, unless you have another you wish to choose.”

John nodded along with all of it, figuring she would mostly be waiting to snap a picture anyway.  It would be easy enough.

“Repeat it back to me,” Sherlock said and slipped her hands from John’s neck, adjusting her sweater and tugging at her jeans.  

“Amaryllis,” John said and slipped back into her seat.  Though she was nervous about making a fool of herself, and about leaving her gun at home, she guessed Sherlock was now in charge.  Sherlock would not let anything bad happen to her.  If Sherlock’s lack of self-preservation kicked in, it would not be a great hardship to safeword.  It would be fine.  

Just a bit of kiss and tell.

Absolutely fine.

“We’re here,” the cabbie announced.  

“Deal with him,” Sherlock said and pushed her way out of the car ahead of John. 

John paid and took the cabbie’s card, shaking out her legs, annoyed at how her fake cock chafed against her mons.  

Sherlock nodded towards the entrance of the bar and said, “Order a pint and sit in the back, preferably in the shadows.  Keep your phone out.  I’ll be texting you.  I’ll be in in a minute.”  She dove into her pocket and tugged out a cigarette. 

“Are you smoking?” John snapped, reaching out to take her lighter away. 

“Appearances,” Sherlock drawled and stepped back.  “Very disappointing of you to question me, John.  You’ve just earned one day of punishment.  Now go inside before I make it two.”

John’s mouth fell open in protest, but her tendons strained against the handmade necklace and she shut it again.  Right.  Not in charge.  Why was she doing this again?

The pub was like most pubs, only this one had a dance floor with the words  _ Come As You Are _ painted across them.  Sherlock defined this place as gay friendly, but not a gay club.  There were couples of varying sexuality all around.  It seemed quite popular for being on the outskirts of London.  

Their target was near the bar.  For David Borne to be promoting the bigoted propaganda and trying to take away gay rights, he sure did have a funny way of showing it.  According to Mycroft’s notes, the bill he was trying to pass would in no way link back to him unless he was to be exposed.  It was all politicial bull-shit that made him not only a hypocrite but also a coward.  

John approached nervously and ordered a pint in her best male voice.  No one even blinked an eye at her, which she was grateful for.  Only when she turned to David did she bother to make eye contact, sending over her best smile.  David smiled back before turning his attention back to the telly on the wall broadcasting the news.  

That was good, John thought.  She took her pint to the table at the back of the pub and slipped into the sticky booth.  Now that her nerves were gone, she felt herself sweating under the mesh cap and the goatee itching like mad.  She had almost forgotten how ridiculous she looked.  Her beer was absolutely just what she needed. 

After a large gulp, John took out her phone, flipped it to vibrate and opened her camera.  She snapped a quick shot of David and slipped it back onto the table, watching the door.   It would not be enough to place David in a gay friendly bar.  They would need better evidence to stop him.

Sherlock walked in a moment later, leading with her hips and flipping her hair in a way John had seen plenty of men do.  She assessed the room quickly and made her way to the bar, ordering herself a wine.  

Odd choice, John thought.  Wine seemed a bit girly.  

Sherlock sipped her drink and walked past David, not even saying hello.  John frowned as she made her way to the dance floor and started chatting up one of the blokes there.  The man was older, a bit round, and very receptive to the handsome young man smiling down at him.  John watched while trying to make it seem like she was not, her eyes moving back towards David and the news.  

After what must have been twenty minutes, John’s phone pinged. 

_ Blonde woman sitting two tables in front of you.  Two cats, no boyfriend, gym teacher.   Get her number.  -SH _

John scoffed at her phone and her eyes jumped to Sherlock who was now dancing with another man, this one slim, short, and blonde.  David was talking to a woman next to him, friendly but not flirtatious.  Their eyes roamed the room, though it was hard to look away from the dance floor when it was so full.  John could barely make eye contact with Sherlock but Sherlock ignored her anyway, thrusting away to the beat, even grabbing her tube sock cock more than once.  

Ridiculous.  Absolutely ridiculous.  Sherlock was perfectly capable of watching David, but John was not going to chat up a woman!  

_ Don’t disappoint me. Text me when you have it.  -SH _

John groaned.  

This was going to be horrible.  She lifted herself from the table but left her half-full glass, hoping to save her seat.  She walked forward, instantly regretting it, not knowing what she should do with her hands.  

Tucking her thumbs in her pockets seemed too feminine, but putting them all the way in made her pants show.  She ended up tucking them under her armpits but that made her tits itch.  There was no winning so she dropped them to her side and spun in front of the blonde’s table. 

The blonde was cute.  She was dressed in a sundress and had a lackadaisical look about her, her eyes glued to the entrance.  

“Hello,” John said, clearing her throat.  

The blonde jumped and spun to her, her green eyes widening.  “Hi.”

John rocked on her trainers, not quite sure what to say.  Men usually introduced themselves first, right?  They did not just ask for the number outright.   “I’m John.  Uh- John Watson.”  She only squeaked once. 

“Miranda,” the girl greeted, her smile falling from polite to mildly annoyed.  

John bit her lip and trudged on.  “How are you?”

“Good.” She crossed her legs and leaned back in her booth.  “How are you?”

“Good.”

The awkward pause was excruciating.  

“Well,” Miranda said, her eyes darting back to the entrance as the door opened.  “It was nice meeting you, but I am waiting for friends.”

“Right,” John shook her head and sighed.  “I just- I wanted to compliment your hair. I like waterfall braids.”

Her face lit up, her arms uncrossing.  “Thank you.  It took me forever to do them.  That’s so sweet of you.”

Right.  She either thought John was a gay man or knew she was a girl.  That was clear.  

“My ex-” John was going to say loved my hair braided, but caught herself and said, “-wore her hair like that.”

“Yeah?” Miranda asked, polite but distant.  “How long have you been broken up?”

“A few weeks,” John lied, gritting her teeth.  Now she was bringing up imaginary exes?  This was terrible.  She was the creepy guy at the bar she always hated.  “Look, I’m sorry for bothering you.  I was dared to try to get your number by my friend.”

Miranda's smile grew and she looked behind him.  “Who’s your friend?”

John looked to Sherlock who was still grinding in front of her mystery men.  It was not fair that she could still be so graceful and manly at the same time.  Not to mention she got to be the one dancing in the middle of the pack of men while John was left to awkwardly chat up a girl.  “Not here right now.  He texted.”

Miranda’s eyes rose. 

“I’m not lying, I could show you.” John said and huffed.  “I’m so sorry.  You have friends coming.  I’m going to leave you alone now.”

“It’s alright,” she said, but clearly she was relieved.  

John slunk back to her booth in the back and drank the rest of her pint.  She sent her text to Sherlock and hung her head.  

_ I didn’t get it. -JW _

John saw the moment Sherlock read the text, blue light glowing across her unhappy face as she continued to dance.  

_ Disappointing.  You earned your second day.  -SH _

John sighed and gripped her empty glass. 

_ Get another pint.  Don’t talk to anyone.  Sit back down.  Keep your phone out.  -SH _

The bar was busier so it took a bit longer to get a drink.  The girl who had been speaking with David tried to talk to her, but she smiled and shook her head.  It felt a bit rude to not say anything but John was too disappointed to care.  

John was a woman.  She knew how women thought.  She had been approached enough times in her life at a pub.  She should know better.  

David was busy on his phone, playing some kind of game.  John looked at Sherlock who was looking directly at David, her mind already calculating what to do next.  John left her to it and sat back down.  

When a few minutes had passed, her phone lit again. 

_ Flirt with Brone.  Get his number.  Kiss him if you can but you will not be punished if you are unable. -SH _

John groaned out loud.  Well, at least David was a man.  John flirted with men all the time.  And it was for the case. 

Once she chugged a few gulps of beer, she pushed herself to her feet and took her glass with her, approaching David’s side of the bar without coming directly at him.  David barely glanced up from his mobile. 

Well, that was not very promising. 

John dipped her hips and thrust out her leg, something that usually had at least a few eyes darting her way, though she usually had a more defined ass and a low cut top.  

No one even bothered to glance at her and she probably looked an idiot. 

With a large sigh she turned to David and glanced over his shoulder, trying to figure out what game he was playing.  

“Tetris?” she asked out loud, amused. 

David glanced up.  “Hm?”

“Sorry,” John’s voice squeaked and she tried to breathe before speaking, as per the cabbie’s instructions.  “I didn’t mean to look over your shoulder.  I just...Tetris was not what I was expecting.”

David’s smile did not reach his eyes.  “I like the older games.  All this Candy Crush has me utterly baffled.”

John snickered and batted her eyelashes, before wondering if that made her look too girly for a gay man to be interested.  “Um, yeah.  I know what you mean.”  John sucked in a large breath at David’s sad little smile and pushed ahead.  Confidence, Sherlock said.  Confidence.  Right.  “So what are you doing at the bar by yourself playing Tetris when there’s a dance floor right there?  And a dance partner right here.”

David’s eyebrows rose and his smile jumped a bit which gave John a reason to genuinely smile back.  Thank fuck. 

David chuckled briefly and finally turned his phone screen off, when that smile fell.  Shit.  “Look-” He started which did not bode well.  “Mate-”

“Once dance?” John asked quickly, knowing her voice squeaked again. 

David’s tiny smile did not grow.  “Sorry, but you’re just not my type.  I like men.”

“I’m-”

“I know,” David said shortly.  “And you can look me up after your transition but until then, sorry.”  He turned right back to his phone, effectively giving John the cold shoulder. 

John’s mouth fell open, horribly affronted for some reason.  Yes, she was clearly a girl dressed as a man but that was quite rude, was it not?  

After a full thirty seconds of her mouth hanging open, she stomped back to the corner booth.  Naturally, she found it taken so she spun to an empty chair and collapsed into it, texting Sherlock. 

_ He said to look him up after my transition. -JW _

There.  Sherlock would understand.  Sure enough, a moment later, she responded. 

_ Disappointing but expected.  That’s another day. -SH _

_ But you knew that was going to happen! -JW _

_ Are you questioning me? -SH _

_ I said you would not be punished for the kiss.  The number was separate. -SH _

_ Stay where you are and be ready. -SH _

Almost immediately, Sherlock separated from her dance partner and tumbled over to the bar where she leaned between a woman and David to get a fresh drink, looking far more tipsy that she could possibly be.  The woman huffed and tilted away but David’s eyes seemed to linger a moment longer than they should.  Sherlock turned to him and smiled, saying something friendly if David’s smile was something to go by.  Then David pointed at Sherlock’s band shirt and they both leaned in towards each other, gleefully discussing.  

They talked and laughed long enough for the woman to vacate her seat and for John to finish her beer.  The flirting escalated to the point of touching when John clicked a new photo and received a new text. 

_ Come behind me and order a new pint.  -SH _

John supposed that was a good idea.  It was creepy enough she was sitting alone at a pub without talking to anyone.  It would be double that if she did not have a drink in front of her. 

People were still swimming around the pub but there were less than the beginning of the night.  It had to be a lull between hours because they had only been there for a bit over one.  John checked her phone and swallowed.  

7% Battery

Perhaps she should not have been playing Candy Crush while waiting for Sherlock to be done.  

The bartender understood her signal and poured her a beer as Sherlock started to chuckle.  She was playing full drunk now, her hand flying to the bar to keep herself upright, bumping into John accidentally on purpose. 

Sherlock spun to John and, in her deep voice, apologized, “Sorry, dude.”

The low lighting and colored strobes on the dance floor truly played into the presentation.  If John did not know Sherlock, she would say exactly what Sherlock had; effeminate man, a real artist type.  The long lashes really accentuated the entire thing, almost making it look like she were wearing a bit of liner.  

Sherlock winked once, just because she could, and John snapped herself back to the moment, shaking her head to the thumping beat behind her.

“It’s fine,” John said back, her voice definitely cracking.  

Sherlock’s eyes continued to shine as she turned to David and laughed conspiratorially.  “I wonder what this gentleman would have to say about it.”

David snorted into his refill of vodka, clearly not recognizing John from earlier. 

Sherlock turned to John and slurred her speech,  “This is Davey,” she pointed to the man next to her who waved.  “He thinks I look like- oh- what did you call me again?”

David laughed into his drink, red in the face and clearly drunk.  “Twink!”

“Ah yes,” Sherlock laughed back.  She continued to keep it up as she turned to John, even though there was horror in her eyes.  “A twink.  I told him it’s just because I’m androgynous.  So, which is it?”

John looked between Sherlock and David, all eyes on her.  Sherlock seemed to understand her hesitation and added, “Go on.  Speak.”

“I think you look like a girl,” John said automatically, biting her tongue.  A witty sense of humour was not going to bode well when it came to her punishment, she was sure. 

Sherlock narrowed her eyes but David burst out laughing, spilling some of his drink he found it so hilarious.  Sherlock joined him in his laughter and reached out for David’s hand.  She slipped his palm onto her thigh and slid his fingers up, all the way to her crotch, and over her tube sock cock.  

“I promise I’m not,” Sherlock said, biting her lips and raising her bushy brows.  

The man’s face froze, his mouth falling open.  John could see his finger close around Sherlock’s sock, his tongue flicking out.  “But you are something,” he said, awestruck. 

Sherlock slipped his hand back down to her knee, squeezing and leaning in.  “I guess you just make me… something.”

John’s eyes had to be bugging out of her skull.  This was an image she would never get out of her head.  Sherlock flirting with her seemingly hard cock sock.  She pulled out her phone and snapped an inconspicuous photo, sure that it would turn to kissing soon at this rate.  She even tried to pull up the video option but her phone would not allow it due to low battery. 

“Damn,” she muttered aloud. 

Sherlock spun to her, her eyes wild and angry.  

“My phone’s almost dead,” John answered, her eyes dropping to the floor in shame.  This really was an idiotic mistake.  

“Sorry, dude,” Sherlock accentuated her vowels, eyes burning with disappointment, her tone clipping.  “Can’t help you there.  Maybe that guy over there will give you his.”  Sherlock gestured towards the dance floor.  A man was leaning against the wall, the blue glow of his phone on his face.  

John looked at Sherlock and instantly understood.  She could not get a girl’s phone number, and could not get David’s number, but now she was expected to get that random bloke's?   The man was tall and strong, handsome by many standards, and young, but he was closed off, arms and legs hugging his body.  And John looked like a cartoon pothead.  John sighed.  This would not be easy.  

Sherlock and David were huddled back together and John walked over, flipping her phone in her hand.  She needed this one.  She had to prove to Sherlock she could do what she asked, at least once.  She could get a damn phone number.

“Hi,” she said as she approached. 

The man looked up, smiled, and then looked back down. 

Fantastic. 

She closed her eyes and sighed.  Screw it.  “I need your phone number.”

The man looked up suddenly and blinked, “Pardon?”

“I’m sure you get asked for your number a lot because, let’s face it, you are fit, but I will never use it for a booty call or whatever kids are calling it these days.”  John plowed on, hoping the look of amusement on the guy’s face was a good sign.  “I just need it to prove I can get a number.”

“And you want mine?” the man asked, chuckling. “Why?”

“You don’t look like a cock, so it seemed like a good idea.”  John mumbled, “For some reason.”

“Not a cock.  I’ll take it.”  The man smiled and shook his head, dipping a hand into his pocket and pulling out a pen.  “Give me your hand.”

John snorted at the sight of the pen but raised her arm.  “Ready with a pen?  Maybe I should take back the cock comment.”

The man smiled and took her palm, writing down the digits.  “You have really soft hands.”

“Lotion,” John squeaked but the man just winked.  She looked down at the phone number, all real numbers too.  “Wow.  I can’t believe that worked.”

“What can I say?”  He grinned. “I’m attracted to confidence.  I’ll see you round.”

John nodded him off and smiled at her palm, jumping when her phone went off. 

_ Good girl. -SH _

John’s grin was blinding as her heart thudded and her stomach flipped.  

_ Come back to get your drink.  Grab my phone next to your glass.  Find woman whose seat I took and get her number.  -SH _

John turned and strode to the bar, easily slipping Sherlock’s phone into her pocket and spotting the unhappy woman trying to talk another man up.  Clearly the woman was desperate.  This would be easy. 

“Hello,” John greeted. 

The woman turned his way with a smile but it dropped when she saw it was him.  “Oh.  Hi.”

That was rude.  John may be sweaty and uncomfortable in her disguise, but she was not off putting.  She smiled anyway and said, “I would like to proceed this statement with the fact that I am not gay, but I couldn’t help but notice your Valentino’s.”  She gestured to the woman’s shoes, thanking Sherlock’s arson case from the month before.  She never would have known the difference between Jimmy Choo and Lulus otherwise.   “They look lovely.  Almost as lovely as you.”

The woman’s smile was still not reaching her eyes but it was an improvement.  “It’s nice they can be appreciated, even in a place like this.”

“Don’t come here often?” John asked, sipping her beer. 

“Here?” Her nose wrinkled.  “God no.  I had a date.  They stood me up, if you can believe that.”

“I can’t,” she answered, though she really could.   John suddenly wished she had Miranda back, but the girl was nowhere to be seen.  “Men are horrible.  A call or a text is really not that hard to send if you are not going to make it.”

“Exactly,” the woman said, eyeing John up and down. 

“He should make it up to you.  Take you to-” John tried to remember the name of that expensive restaurant Sherlock took them when they solved the latest case, Mycroft’s platinum card slipped between her fingers.  “Le Gavroche.”

“You’ve eaten there?” she asked, raising a snooty brow. 

John smirked.  Money was the way to this woman’s heart.  That was disappointing but easy enough to work with.  “I have.  Ask for Alexander then next time.  He’s really the only reason I go anymore.”

“You don’t like the food?” she asked, leaning in, her arms uncrossing. 

“I don’t like the French,” John joked distastefully and it landed, she laughed and threw her hand on John’s shoulder.  

The conversation was excruciating but John let Amber lead it, thankfully not needing to say more than a distant ‘mm’ or ‘huh’.  John was barely paying attention, waiting to snap the photo of Sherlock and David on the new phone.  John moved Amber to a table close enough where nothing would be out of focus but far enough that she could not hear what they were talking about.  Glass after glass piled up in front of David as Amber listed off her favorite destination trips.  John had lied about being a coder and making millions, so Amber could happily talk on without being interested in the details of Jon's complicated fake work.  

Thankfully, Amber’s phone chimed and she answered the call, sighing dramatically when she hung up.  “That was work.  I have to go.”  She slipped a hand into her purse and pulled out a card.  “Here is my number.  Give me a call some time.  We can go somewhere nice that’s not French.”  She winked and left with John’s nod.

John collapsed on herself and tucked the number away.  She had Sherlock’s phone so she could not text, but she pulled it out to snap another photo.  David was leaning in, his hand on Sherlock’s upper thigh again.  

Suddenly, Sherlock fell in, her lips colliding against David’s.  John fumbled the phone back on and opened the camera app as quick as she could.  

Luckily, David was kissing back, his hand resting on Sherlock’s thigh, the other gripping the bar to stay upright.  John snapped a picture but it was fuzzy and she cursed, pressing the screen to focus but all it did was flip the camera.  She pressed more buttons until it flipped back, finally focusing in on the two.  

Sherlock had slid from her stool and was now in between David’s legs, his hands around her back, tracing up and down her spine.  One of her hands was gesturing towards John, clearly asking her to hurry it up. 

John snapped a photo again and froze.  The flash had gone off.  

The two parted and David’s eyes blinked towards John.   She snapped a new picture and the flash went off again.  

Shit.

“Run, John!” Sherlock yelled, dropping the act.  

John ran out the door, pushing people out of the way, Sherlock close behind.  David was hot on their tail, his drunken brain apparently realizing what was happening.  He tried to yell but it was hard to understand from so far away.  Sherlock darted into an alley, dragging John behind her.  All of this felt quite familiar.  

Thank god for trainers.  Heels were the devil’s shoe.  

They panted and laughed, and John handed the phone and Amber’s number to Sherlock.  

Sherlock looked at the phone and the business card and nodded.  She handed the phone back and commanded, “Call the cab.”

The cabbie was very happy to hear their video went well.  

When they were home, John collapsed into the couch, scratching at the itchy goatee.  

Sherlock walked into the room and eyed her until John looked up and sighed.  She rose to her feet and waited.  

“You earned three days of punishment,” Sherlock said briskly. “However, you did earn your reward.  Tomorrow.  Tonight, you can sleep.”

Sherlock reached around the back of John’s neck and undid the knot. 

It was not like the last time, she did not feel like this was really any kind of scene.  This seemed more like a bet or experiment on Sherlock’s part.  Well, the consequences were not awful and it turned out kind of fun.  After the embarrassment of Miranda, it seemed to get easier to get those numbers.  Less success than what John was used to but if Sherlock asked her to pick up girls again, maybe she could actually do it.

John smiled gratefully and collapsed back into the couch, yanking pins from her hair.  “I cannot believe you had me picking up girls and gay blokes.”

“Confidence, John.”

“Not with that last one.  She was horrible.”

“Yes, I may have been picking harder targets.”  Sherlock wiggled off her shirt and scarf and tossed them onto John’s chair.  She rubbed at her mouth, smearing the makeup on her chin.  “I did not think you would actually acquire hers.”

With the tank top and the binding of the duct tape in place, Sherlock was bridging that gap between male and female even more. Here, with her chin wiped clean of fake stubble, her hair up, and her eyes dark, this was what androgynous Sherlock looked like.  

John gulped.  “You picked people you didn’t think I could get.”

Sherlock’s head cocked to the side and she stood in front of her with her hands on her hips, fake cock thrusted forward.  “I wanted you to prove me wrong.”

“And did I?”  John’s hands shook as she reached into her pants and pulled out her tube sock, throwing it aside with her wig and mesh cap.  

Sherlock leaned into her, arm bent over the back of the couch, her free hand gripping at John’s chin, forcing her gaze up and close.  “I’m very proud.”  Sherlock’s nails slowly scraped along her chin and up her cheek to her ear where she pulled at a piece of loose hair and smiled.  “I suppose you aren’t as repulsive with short hair as you think.”

John’s chuckle came out cracking, her body twitching as Sherlock’s breath tickled the rabbit fur under her lip.  “I am with this goatee.”

“Yes.  Spirit gum is a horrible but convenient invention.” With a crook of the finger, Sherlock ripped her body back.   “Come to the bathroom and we will remove it with as little pain as possible.”

John shook her head, oddly still breathless from the run.  She smiled and called, “How much pain exactly?”

“Come along, John!”


	12. Skivvies

The reward for her night’s work was a spa day at Rita’s Relaxing Spa and Beauty Bar.  John had never heard of it, but she had never really been to a spa before either.  A part of her suspected it was a way for Sherlock to get her out of the flat so she could go back to solving Moriarty’s puzzle, but John did not mind.  Mycroft was paying after all. 

_ The pictures will suffice.  Britain thanks you for your dedication.  Enjoy your reward.  -M _

John nearly had a heart attack reading the word ‘reward’ but doubted he knew about the arrangement she and Sherlock had drawn up.  Then again, he was a Holmes who had spent at least ten minutes in the flat without John there.

Either way, it was none of his business.  

When John came home, smelling of apricots and feeling like rubber, Sherlock was yelling into her phone.  “Just because I am a woman, does not mean I need to be nice!”

John sighed.  As relaxed as she was, she knew this was going to happen.  Sherlock was bound to tense her back up within five minutes of being home.  

“Then you can kiss his posterior if you care so much!  Just get me in a room with her!”

John slipped into the kitchen to make her tea but froze, staring at the dishes.  It had been two weeks and the dishes from when she cooked were still in the sink.  Two weeks.

Not to mention the cock was still on the wall, her destroyed lipstick tube thrown to the side.  

John sighed through her nose, trying to ignore it, and pulled out the milk for her tea.  The expired milk.  She slammed the fridge shut and growled.  

Moriarty had cut her shopping trip short so there was nothing fresh anywhere.  Sherlock, the pretty princess she was, could not lower herself to do such trivial chores.  Instead, she was throwing out orders to the poor peasant on the other end of that phone call, trussing about in her silver suit.   

“Fine!” She snapped and charged into the kitchen, her eyes wandering, ignoring the anger that John knew was blatantly obvious.  “Not important,” Sherlock said, waving her off.  “Put on your dress.  The green one with the low neckline.  We need to go.”

“And where are we going?” John asked, grinding her teeth. 

“Remand centre,” Sherlock grunted, spinning back towards the living room.  “Hurry up!”

The centre was bleak and gray with plenty of bored looking officers and workers walking about.  They had to pass through three different checkpoints pretending to be reporters, with their fake press passes and a stamp of approval via a forged letter from the lawyer of Chloe Bernet.  Of course, John had only just remembered Chloe was the name of the girl who killed her ex-boyfriend Arnold Haywire.  No help from Sherlock there.  Chloe had also run the pawn shop with Haywire and admitted to killing him within a few days.

Within twenty minutes, and one phone call where John had to distract the guards as Sherlock pretended to be the lawyer, they were sitting across a table from Chloe, John with her notepad and Sherlock with a fake smile.  Chloe was a large girl, stuffed into her gray uniform, with her fuzzy, root-showing, brown hair swept into a messy bun.  

“Reporters?” Chloe asked, her eyebrows raising.  “I don’t remember Amy saying nothing about any reporters.  Shouldn’t she be here?”

“Must have slipped her mind,” Sherlock hurried to say around her pained expression.  Lack of basic grammar was her pet peeve.  One of many.  “We have a few questions for you, about what happened.”

“I haven’t even had my trial yet.”  She said, slipping back into her metal chair.  “What am I supposed to tell you?”

“We know you have admitted to killing your lover and business partner, Arnold Haywire, by shooting him through the head.  So much you confessed to the DI in your statement.”

“You read my statement?” Chloe asked, her eyes darting between Sherlock and John.  “Didn’t think the press could do that.” 

Sherlock shrugged her off.  “We at Mentior News believe you should have the opportunity to tell the world why.  Statistically, women are less likely to use a gun and you were not in legal possession of one at the time of the shooting.  You stole it from your pawn shop, correct?”

Chloe’s eyes widened, “How did you know that?”

John quickly interjected, “We do our research.”

“I want to know-” Sherlock began.

“As do our readers,” John tagged on. 

“Why you decided to do it then.”  Sherlock continued, “A client called about selling paintings from their attic.  You chose to steal the gun and bring it with you to the sale.  Why shoot him there?”

Chloe froze, stuck like a deer in the headlights. 

“Was there an argument?” John prompted.  “Did he do something to upset you?”

“She shot him,” Sherlock intoned.  “Of course he did something to upset her.  He cheated on you, yes?”

Chloe shifted, her eyes darting between them again.  “And stole all my money, yeah.”

“Then why?” Sherlock asked. 

“Well he cheated because he was a right prick,” she answered, misunderstanding Sherlock’s intention.  “As for the money, we were both short on funds after buying the shop together.  Fifteen years I gave that tosser.”

“What did he do with your money?” John asked, writing down notes for appearances sake.  She knew Sherlock was probably recording the entire conversation, ignoring the guards requests that they leave all devices off.

“He blew it all on his stupid video game.”

“Video game?” John asked, glancing at Sherlock who was busy glaring Chloe down, trying to force smarts into her brain, no doubt.  But John could not recall a video game from Haywire’s bank records.  

“Skivvies and Lemons,” she replied, her face souring.  “I don’t understand how anyone would have fun playing that shite.”

“Oh, it’s a video game!”  John said, a little too excited.  She thought Skivvies and Lemons had something to do with underwear, based off her quick internet searches when it kept popping up on Arnold’s statements.  An underwear company and a video game.  Strange coincidence. 

Sherlock spared her a glare, as if hearing her think the word coincidence, and looked back at Chloe. “All your money?”

“Yeah,” Chloe grit her teeth.  “Arse.  He kept promising to pay me back, but he never did.  These paintings were supposed to be a big break for us, you know?”  She shook her head.  “The idiot didn’t even ask for a picture first.  They were alright, worth a few hundred each, but that wasn’t enough.”

“So, you shot him?” John asked, her brow scrunching. 

“He promised me millions!” Chloe argued, her hands forming fists.  “I knew he was exaggerating, but he dragged me to that house off a tip from people he barely knew-”

“How did he know the Millers?” Sherlock interrupted.  

“The who?” Chloe cocked her head to the side. 

Sherlock growled low, “The Millers.  The family whose house you bloodied up.”

“Oh,” Chloe blinked and shook her head.  “I assume they called the shop when I wasn’t around.  Usually people just bring stuff in but we sometimes make trips if the payoff is good.”

“So what happened?” John asked. 

“I saw the paintings and we got into an argument and I had the gun on me and I guess I just snapped.  The money and him cheating on me, it all just got to me.  I didn’t mean to kill him then.”

“You meant to kill him later?” Sherlock asked, her ears perking up. 

Chloe paused with her mouth open and shook her head.  “I’m not commenting on that.  That’s off the record.”

“You shot him through the head and not the heart.  Tell me, did you get any advice about that?”

Chloe’s entire body seemed to still, her eyes glistening.  The guard twitched behind her and she squeaked, “What?”

“Does the name Moriarty mean anything to you?”

“Mor-a-what?”

“So,” John jumped in before she decided to clam up completely.  “When did he cheat on you exactly?  Were you still together?”

“Yes,” she replied, her tone short, glaring at Sherlock.  “We were trying to work things out.  He admitted to cheating on me a few months before I shot him, but I think it happened more often than he said.  We were going to a counselor.  Couples.  Though we hadn’t gone to a session together yet.”

“The counselor saw you separately?”  Sherlock inquired and added.  “What was the name of your counselor?”

“Um,” Chloe seemed to weigh the intelligence of sharing her therapist’s name.  “Frank, something.  Graham, I think?  I don’t really remember.  But I have doctor patient confidentiality with him.  You can’t get him to tell you nothing.”

“He was your therapist, but you don’t remember?” Sherlock asked, her patience slipping, fingers gripping her chair.  “Was he really that rubbish?”

“He was plenty good, thank you much.  He gave great advice.”

“And I suppose his great advice is the reason you shot your boyfriend is it?!”  Sherlock suddenly stopped and slipped back into her chair, her lips falling into a small o.  

“You don’t have to answer that,” John said quick, pencil to paper once again, her heart pounding.  Sherlock was clicking things together.  Things were happening.  She loved this part.  “What happened after you shot him?”

Chloe took a moment, her eyes darting around the room, her arms crossing over her body as she turned to the guard and back again.  “I ran.”

“With the paintings?” John asked. 

Chloe nodded. 

“And the lock box,” Sherlock added. 

Chloe stopped nodding, her head cocking to the side again, her brows squinting together.  “The what now?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a smile, before dropping back into a stoic line.  “Never mind.  You ran and who did you contact to remove Arnold’s body?”

“No one,” Chloe said, her voice dropping.  “I assumed the people who owned the house called the police.”

“Did you call anyone else?” John asked.  “Contact anyone?  Like a banker or an assassin maybe?”

“A what?!”

“Anyone?”

Chloe shook her head.  “The next day I went to work, to my therapist, and back home.  The cops came soon after.  But I didn’t tell anyone, obvious, I'm not an idiot.”

Sherlock snorted.  

“What about the mutilations?” John asked.  “Do you have any comments on those?”

Chloe’s brow furrowed.  “Mutilations?  What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know about…”  John trailed off, shaking her head.  Moriarty did not ask permission to turn her boyfriend into a greeting card then.  

“Time to go,” Sherlock said, standing, no explanation given.  She added a quick, “Have fun in prison,” and left through the double doors. 

“Sorry,” John shrugged and ran after her.  Even in the presence of a murderer, she could not help apologizing for Sherlock’s bad manners. 

Once they were safely outside the walls of the center, Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and spun her around.  “John!” She yelled gleefully.  “Finally!  Another piece to this blasted puzzle!”

John smiled wide as Sherlock let go and they sauntered along the drive.  “Are you going to fill me in?”

“Later,” Sherlock smiled.  “Now, I need to go shopping.”

“What?” John asked, nearly tripping.  “You’re going shopping before you solve a case?”

“Not groceries, John.  Games.”


	13. Hyacinth

“I still say you telling me to wear that green dress the other day counts as assigning me an outfit!” John yelled from the bathroom, glaring at her reflection. 

“Don’t question me, ma chérie,” Sherlock yelled back, too busy with her new video game to get up.  “Or I’ll add another day to your punishment.”

Skivvies and Lemons was not available in any of the 7 game shops they visited.  It was only because one of the patrons overheard them that they learned the game was only available online and only through one retailer.  Lucky for the sanity of customer service, the game could be overnighted.

“You can’t-” John growled, stopping herself.  Sherlock very well could add another day. 

Martin was not going to be happy.  They were going out for dinner and John was dressed like an elephant.  She was in oversized gray sweatpants with a matching gray sweatshirt and she was fairly certain Sherlock had purposefully added stains to the front.  Her hair was pinned to her head and another wig lay atop it, this one very short and very black.  Her makeup was simple so that did not help very much.

Underneath the monstrosity of an outfit were the skimpiest lingerie pieces John had ever put on her own body.  The top part functioned like a bra but it was completely lace and see-thru.  The bottoms were strange.  They were also very lacy, with a few strips of almost nothing along the sides and one digging into her crack, but the padding seemed a bit thick for it to be a usual thong. There was even a little nub that sat directly over her clit.  It was very distracting.   

The icing on top of the uncomfortable cake were the shoes and the necklace.  The shoes were strappy and high, curling around John’s ankles, teasing what was hiding underneath the sweats.  The necklace was the lace choker with the red heart, a reminder to John about why she was wearing this outfit.  All thanks to Sherlock.  

John fixed the necklace, tucking the chain in the back underneath her sweatshirt, trying to hide it.  Martin was not going to like any of this. 

“Keep your phone on!”  Sherlock yelled from the living room, controls from the Playstation clacking.  “Your safeword is hyacinth.  Though you are welcome to choose.”

John clipped into the living room, raising an eyebrow as she picked up her purse and gun.  “Sherlock, you know you can’t tell me what to do on my date with Martin.”

“You’re wearing the outfit I told you,” she muttered, her eyes never leaving the screen of the small telly.  

“Yes,” John sighed, “But you can’t control my entire life, Sherlock.  This is my time with my boyfriend.  You can’t interfere with that.  Martin’s not going anywhere so you’ll have to learn to live with it.”

“Please,” Sherlock rolled her eyes, still clicking through some kind of maze.  “You find Major-”

“Martin!”

“-boring!”  Sherlock did not turn around once.  “You say that you love him, but you don’t.  Why bother continuing on this plateau?  You’re not even attracted to him!  He’s forgettable.  You deserve better than a medial science teacher with a stars obsession.”

John ground her teeth together. “It’s Star Trek and plenty of people like it.  And I do love him.  And he loves me.  Do you know what that means?  Hm, Sherlock?  That means I’m going to marry him one day.”  John waited but Sherlock did not even bother to blink.  “Did you hear me?”  Her fists started to shake.  “He and I  _ are _ in love.  We are going to get married and move in together and start a family.  You of all people should know that sex does not matter.” 

John stomped away before Sherlock could think to say another insult.  

Martin was waiting outside the Italian place, looking at his watch.  John rushed over to him and he leapt back, his eyes wide.  

“Yikes,” he said, chuckling.  “What happened to you?”

John groaned, “Sherlock,” which was answer enough.  

“Are you wearing something under that?  Or do we have to sit in the restaurant with you looking like that?”

John flushed red.  “You wouldn’t want me to take my clothes off here, I promise.  Let’s just go in and talk about something else.”  She walked forward but Martin hesitated.  “What’s wrong?”

Martin’s face pinched.  “Can you at least take off the wig?  You look ridiculous.”

John’s hand jumped to the hair on her head and pat the short black strands down.  “I know it’s a little dark but I didn’t think it looked that bad.”

Martin’s eyebrows raised and he snorted.  “You look like the homeless love child of Ellen Page and Ellen Degeneres.  You’re Ellen Watson!”  

He tried to grab at the wig but John darted out of reach.  It took her forever to get that thing to stay in place without showing her wig cap.

“I know it’s a bit strange,” she said, adjusting her sweatshirt again.  “But it’s only for one night and I have to.”

“Have to?” Martin asked, his arms crossing. 

“Remember how I said Sherlock was going to do that experiment where she tells me what to do?”

“Well, you’re not with her now.  How will she even know?”

John snorted.  “You don’t know Sherlock.”

“No, I don’t,” Martin huffed.  “Wasn’t she supposed to come out with us?”

“She’s working on a case and I did tell her you had those conferences already so-”

“So your best friend is too busy to meet your boyfriend on his one night back in the city?” Martin asked, raising an eyebrow.  “And now she’s found a new way to tell you what to do when she’s not even around and is trying to ruin our date.”

John flinched, her hand slapping against her thigh.  “Our date is not ruined because I’m dressed like this.  We can still eat and talk and have fun.” 

“Why can’t you see you’re being manipulated?” Martin threw up his hands.  “She’s a psychopath!”

“Sherlock is not a psychopath!”

“Sociopath, then.”

“She’s not that either!” John threw up her own hands.  “I’m not arguing about this again.  She just calls herself one so people will piss the fuck off and leave her alone.”

“Exactly!  She manipulates everyone around her, including you.  She does it all the time.  Right down to dictating our dating schedule.  You are putty in her hands, Joan!  She could tell you to do anything and you wouldn’t know how to say no! Are you actually alright with that?”

John stumbled back and adjusted her purse.  It was not like Sherlock was her warden.  When they had a case on, date nights were hard to keep.  Other nights, sure Sherlock had pulled her away more than once for something menial, but that was just who Sherlock was.  Martin never understood that.  He only ever saw John leaving to run after Sherlock.  Which, she guessed, would make Martin’s argument valid. 

John sighed and shook her head.   “No.  But that’s the way she is.”  She shrugged, pulling her bulky sweatshirt awkwardly over the pinching sweatpants.  She huffed and pushed everything back into place.  “We agreed to this and she could have done worse than sweats and a wig but she didn’t.  She does care about me.  In her own way.”

“I care about you.”  Martin stepped forward and grabbed her by the shoulders.  “I wouldn’t send you out of the house looking like that.  I would allow you to be your naturally gorgeous self.”  He slipped a hand under her chin and tilted her gaze up.  “I just want to make sure you know who is controlling you and who is loving you.” 

John rolled her lips and nodded.  “Once you meet her, you’ll understand.” 

“Just don’t pick her over me, Joan.”  Martin added, his head tilting to the side, his lips pinching into a tight smile.  “That’s why all your other boyfriends left.”

John pulled her head away, “That’s not what’s happening here.”

“Then take off the wig.”

John clasped the top of her head.  “I can’t do that.”

“See?” Martin threw his arms back over his chest.  

“It’s just hair.”  John paced in a circle.  “I already know what I look like and you’re not helping.  I don’t care what other people think.  I mean- what if I cut my hair like this?  What would you do then?  Actually break up with me?  Over hair?”

Martin froze, his hand coming up to shift through his own hair.  “You’re not actually going to cut it, are you?”

“No,” John muttered. 

“Then why worry about it?”  Martin cried.  After an uncomfortably long pause where neither spoke and neither moved, Martin said, “Let’s forget about it and get something to eat, alright?  I think I saw a food truck with Indian round the corner.”

John looked at the restaurant's overhead light and back at him.  “I thought we were eating Italian?”

Martin shrugged, “Indian sounds better, no?”

John followed him silently around the corner and down a few blocks where a food truck sat.  They ordered and sat on a bench in silence for a while before Martin started talking about his day at work.  John was not paying much attention, just shoveling in food and nodding at appropriate times.  When he asked about the case, she shrugged and said they had not gotten far.  She did not feel like going into their meeting with Chloe and the new video game revelations.  She would tell him later when she was not getting a chill from the nighttime breeze blowing over her bare toes.  

After a brief good-night kiss, John stomped up the stairs into the flat and threw her purse gently onto the sofa, wary of her gun.  She looked around and frowned.  

The purple cock was still on the wall with all the knife holes surrounding it, knives mysteriously missing.  The kitchen was a disaster with dirty plates and beakers and pans filling the sink.  Papers were strewn all over the floor, string dangling from pins along the walls.  Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the mess with a computer open to her left, her phone to her right, and the gaming console in front of her, a new game on the telly screen.  

John sighed aloud and collapsed into her chair. 

“I didn’t tell you you could do that,” Sherlock said, not turning around. 

“Not now, Sherlock, “ John grunted and threw the papers crackling under her thigh across the room.  What was a little more mess? 

“Date didn’t go well.” 

Heat flared in John’s stomach and she threw her pillow at the telly, smacking it directly in the screen.  She relished Sherlock’s jump and yelled, “It was embarrassing!”

“For who?” She drawled. 

“For me!”

“You were embarrassed?” Sherlock asked, paused her play and spun around, still dressed in her suit from yesterday. 

“Yeah I was,” John growled.

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose and she looked at her mobile.  “Not enough to text me your safe word and come back home to change.”

“Well…”  John swallowed and shifted back into the chair.  “No. But-”

“But your boyfriend was unnecessarily embarrassed by your appearance.”

John grit her teeth.  “Not exactly unnecessary.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.  “I could take you to eat right now and I would not be embarrassed.”

John rolled her eyes.  “You're not embarrassed by anything.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, her gaze falling to the open computer, her fingers tapping away.  “Why do you care what other people think?”

“I care because I’m with him!”  John yelled, the heat returning when Sherlock did not so much as glance at her.  “We are a team and when you are on a team you make decisions together.”

“Picking out your home, deciding where to have your wedding, fine.”  Sherlock threw up her hand and continued to read what was on the computer.  “But choosing your outfits every day.  Picking out your haircut and colour.  Where does it end?”

“You’re doing that,” John pointed out.

“As punishment.” Sherlock spun back to her.  “If you wore a brown paper bag I would not be embarrassed to be seen with you, because you are John Watson.  My soldier and my blogger.  Flash your bare bum for all I care.  The rest of the world be damned.”

John swallowed, her gaze dropping to the floor.  That was, rather nice actually.  She smiled tentatively and said, “Tell me that’s not your next outfit for me.”

Sherlock snorted and then paused, her head cocking in a way that spelled danger.  

“Nope!” John said, throwing up her hands.  “I don’t want to know, I don’t want to think about it.  I don’t want to think about anything.”

“Oh that must be a wonderful thing, not to think,” Sherlock said and spun back to her Playstation.  “This game leads nowhere.  Literally nowhere.  It is very…” She slammed the buttons on the device but nothing happened.  “Irritating!”  She suddenly gasped, spun back around, and jumped to her feet.  “You’re still wearing the necklace.”

John fiddled with the heart resting near her collarbone.  “You want to play now?”

“Don’t you?” Sherlock asked, wiggling her eyebrows.  

“I don’t know-”

“Do you remember your safeword?”  Sherlock asked.  “Say it if you do.”

“Hyacinth,” John replied immediately.  “Are we really-”

“Quiet,” Sherlock commanded, lifting a hand.  Her body straightened and her face fell into the facade it always did whenever she took charge.  “From now on, you are not to talk unless instructed or you need to use your safeword.”

John nodded and ducked her head, stretching her legs out and standing up.  Why the hell not?  Anything to forget that awful dinner.

“Good.”  Sherlock looked around the rooms and paced, her hands behind her back.  “This place is a pigsty.  We’ve really let it slide.  I think to start, you will be doing the dishes.  Off you go.”

John snapped her head up and glared.  Red spots swam in the corners of her vision and her hands curled.  “No.  There is no way I am-”

“Are you speaking out of turn?!” Sherlock yelled loud enough to make John jump.  “Any more and I’ll be washing your mouth out with soap.”

“I am not doing the-” John half yelped half moaned, her knees slamming against the floor.  “What the-” she panted.  Her entire body shook, pleasure painfully punching from her center and pulsing down her thighs.  Sherlock loomed over her unhappily, a tiny silver remote dangling from her fingers. 

“How unfortunate,” Sherlock tutted, swaying the remote back and forth.  “I’ll get the soap.  You stay here, on your hands and knees, just as you are.”

Sherlock spun away and John thought she should probably argue or safeword or something but she was too lost in the surprise of her twitching legs.

Sherlock returned a moment later, a bar of white soap clutched in her palm.  “Sit up,” she commanded. 

John could not move.  Another vibration rattled her body and her elbows collapsed to the ground.  A gasp escaped her lips.  

Sherlock dropped to her knees and grabbed the back of John’s neck, keeping her down.  “Open your mouth.”

John’s mouth was already hanging open, but apparently not enough because another shock made her yelp, and Sherlock shoved the soap into her, holding it in place.  John recoiled.  Sherlock instantly shoved her neck back down and the taste of bitter soap burst across her tongue and mixed with the aftertaste of food cart Indian.   

“One minute,” Sherlock forcefully whispered directly into her ear.  Her hand pressed firmly under John’s nose and air puffed wildly along her fingers.  “And I’ll take the soap out.  If you need to safeword, tap the ground three times.”

John felt flush, sweat trickling along the back of her neck where Sherlock had her.  Her fingertips scraped against the ground, her mouth working around the intrusive block.  Her tongue lashed out and her entire body flinched at the taste, her teeth sinking in and her lips parting.  

The minute ticked by fast.  Sherlock removed the soap and stepped away.  John took a moment to cough and wipe her spit soaked mouth along her sweatshirt, but fell back towards the floor, panting.  

Bloody hell.  That was nowhere near getting phone numbers or shopping errands.

“Since you’re down there, you can start on the floor instead.”  Sherlock disappeared again, her footsteps echoing towards the bathroom.  

John swallowed and immediately winced, coughing onto the floorboards.  

Sherlock’s bare feet returned, brushing up against John’s hands.  A bucket dropped next to her, splashing water inside.  A toothbrush dropped next to it, hitting John in the arm before spinning back to the ground.  

Sherlock’s voice was direct as she spoke, “The vibrator in your pants can either be used as punishment or reward.  Your choice.  For every bad decision you make, you get shocked with a high amount of pressure on your cliotrus.  For every good decision, you get this-”

John heard the click of the remote before the vibrator started to shake.  Unlike the earlier bursts, this one was smooth and soft, gently rubbing against her center and setting her nerve endings alight.  She gasped as her internal walls clenched around nothing. 

The vibrating stopped.  John moaned, panted, and collapsed back into herself, practically laying on the floor. 

Sherlock hummed and walked back to her computer, calling over her shoulder.  “Start in the kitchen.”

It took John a few moments before she could reach for the toothbrush and bucket and shuffle her way to the kitchen on her knees.  There was a lot more floor than she remembered there being, and, from this angle, she could see a lot more questionable stains and crusty patches.  It took a minute for her idle mind to remember there used to be a rug under the table.  Sherlock had spilled something on it and it was still at the cleaners.   

Without thinking too much about it, she moved to the back of the room next to the fridge and started in on the first spot of tile.  The water she dipped the toothbrush in smelled a bit of chlorine, but trusted that Sherlock would not allow her to work with anything that would chemically react with whatever was in the kitchen.  From there it was circling over and over again, finishing up one square and then moving to the next, pausing only to slice in between the grooves.  Everything else melted away, one circle at a time.

When she had made her way to under the kitchen table, she was sweating through her sweatsuit and under her wig.   Her shoulders ached and her knees were starting to act up from being on all fours for so long.  She shifted constantly and stretched, pulling the fabric she could from her body to fan herself.  

Sherlock must have sensed something because she leaned against the kitchen walkway and tutted.  “Sit up.”

John moved out from under the table and sat on her legs, swiping a hand over her sweaty brow.  

“You’ve been doing a very good job,” Sherlock purred, her eyes not leaving John.  “But your poor outfit, you’ll sweat right through it.  Take off your sweatpants and sweatshirt.”

John gladly tugged the sweatshirt over her head and tossed it to the side, throwing herself on her arse so she could strip the sweatpants from around her clinging shoes.  The cool air did wonders on her sticky skin, and she breathed deep, rubbing at her pink kneecaps.  

Suddenly, a sharp punch of vibration rushed through her and she curled in on herself, hissing out a breath. 

Sherlock swung the remote at her.  “I give you clothes and you throw them on the floor like the rest of the trash here?  Is that what you think of the gifts I give you?”

John sucked air through her teeth and twisted around to grab the sweats, carefully folded them, and stacked them on the chair closest to her.  Sherlock hummed her approval and the a small pulsing started at John’s sex, soft vibrations with a gentle slow pace.  

“Good girl,” Sherlock breathed and John moaned, unable to stop herself.  When the vibrations stopped, Sherlock whispered, “Look at you.  I do rather like you in lace.  Your skin glows when you shake.  Helpless to what you feel.”

John gasped and tried to push herself up into a sitting position once again.  

“Back to work on your hands and knees, my lovely whore,” Sherlock called as she turned back to her chair.  “I’ll be watching you.”

John knew exactly what she looked like on all fours with her lingerie and heels.  She could perfectly imagine Sherlock’s view of her bare arse wiggling in the air as she continued to scrub the floor under the bright lights.  A blush crept from her chest to her cheeks as she turned to pull the bucket near her.  

After a time, John almost forgot Sherlock was watching, her mind lost, thinking about nothing, only focused on swirling the bristles of the brush.  Reminded when she went back over a certain tile that did not match the shine of the rest and was rewarded by another soft vibration, crescendoing slowly until her arms buckled. 

“Keep going, ma chérie,” Sherlock called, her laptop clicking in the background. 

John continued until the entire kitchen floor was done, nearly shining at every corner, a few burned patches the only discolorations.  She turned towards Sherlock, waiting to see if she had done well enough or if she were even being watched anymore.  Sherlock met her gaze instantly but took her time in stepping out of her chair and toeing over, her eyes taking in every inch of the floor.  

Sherlock nodded and said, “Good girl,” followed by a vibration that started with slow pulses and picked up to an alarmingly fast beat.  John curled back up on her side and whined, panting as her body ground up against only air, her internal walls flaring on empty space.  Just as her muscles tensed and her cries were escalating towards ecstasy, the vibration stopped. 

John groaned and flipped to her back, wiping at the spit that had collected on the side of her open mouth.  

Sherlock stepped over her, her legs trapping her on either side.  John looked up with slack eyes, her breath still pounding.  

“You truly are lovely,” Sherlock whispered, her thumb circling around the buttons on the remote.  Her own chest rose and fell with pants and she breathed her words brokenly, “My lovely little whore writhing just for me.”

The button clicked and John arched from the floor, her eyes pinching shut and her mouth falling open.  The vibrations were fast again, pushing against her in the perfect way.  Her hands fumbled for something to grab as the pleasure drove past her center and into her limbs, a gasp stuck in her throat.  

The vibrations stopped and she sobbed out a breath, closing her hands tighter around Sherlock’s ankles.  She could not move her sweaty palms away, needing something as she caught her breath. 

Sherlock’s mouth clicked and John looked up to see her pink cheeks flaring, her eyes wide and dark.  She held up the remote and said, “If I click this one more time, you will come.”  

John lost control of the cry in her throat, whining like a needy child.  

Sherlock circled her thumb around the button.  “Alternatively, you can take the remote to your bedroom and finish yourself.  Either way, you earned your reward.”

John licked her lips and eyed the remote.  The bedroom was so very far away and her legs felt like rubber. 

John’s hands tightened around Sherlock’s ankles and she rolled her lips.  Sherlock nodded once and John watched as her glossy purple nail dove into the button. 

Pleasure blinded John, her limbs thrusting up and out, heels clicking against the ground, hips rolling up to meet the source of those pulses.  She gasped in a breath as her head rolled back, her hands slipping and recurling under Sherlock’s trousers and around her shins.  The growing heat washed over her stomach and pulled at her muscles, her body shaking.   With one final click, she leapt over the edge, her entire body washing over with pleasurable tingles, rolling from her center to her head and back again.  

“Oh fuc- god- ah-”

When her climax receded she fell back, panting.  She spread out to feel as much of the chilly floor she could.  The world blurred as Sherlock’s arms dove under her and lifted her from the ground, depositing her gently on the couch.  John hummed but kept her eyes closed.  

Sherlock’s footsteps echoed away for only a moment before she silently returned.  The next thing John felt was a small cool cloth dripping across her chest.  She took it from Sherlock and swept it over her head, leaving it against her neck.  

After catching her breath, there was nothing left to do but let the guilt wash over her.  

That had not been sex...right?  That had just been very much sexual.  But if Martin in any way shape or form knew about it, he would have a right fit. She had just orgasmed in front of her flatmate… because of her flatmate...a bit not good.  More than a bit not good.  Very much not good.

“Shhh,” Sherlock whispered next to her, her hand working at the pins on her scalp, slipping the hot wig from her head.  “The point was to stop thinking.”

John nodded and moved the cloth over her chest and between her tits.  She sighed in relief.  That felt absolutely blissful.  “I didn’t think.”

“Good,” Sherlock cooed, pulling John’s locks free and scratching her fingers over her scalp.  

“That feels wonderful,” she hummed.  

Sherlock continued to scratch.  “I believe this session was successful, do you agree?”

John nodded, her eyes closed, her body sinking into the cushions.  It took her forever to do that floor.  She had no doubt it was very late into the night.  

“Then we shall continue,” Sherlock said, trying to tilt her voice into a question but not quite reaching. 

John bit her lip.  She was not cheating on Martin.  They knew this would come up.  They were not having sex, it was just sexual.  It would feel strange.  For her and Sherlock, it would be alright.  If it got too strange, John could quit at any time.  

“That’s fine,” John sighed.  “It’s all fine.”

Then, Sherlock’s silken housecoat appeared over her body like a blanket and she found herself slipping into sleep.  Sherlock mumbled something about waking her in a few hours but John did not pay attention.  She simply breathed deeper and slept. 


	14. Lemons

“Yes!” Sherlock shouted, effectively waking John from her doze. 

“Wha-” John failed upright and fumbled to stay on the couch, Sherlock’s robe drifting to the floor.  “What’s going on?”

“The game, John!” Sherlock yelled again, not caring that John barely had her eyes open, let alone her ears. 

John rubbed a had over her face.  “What game?  Did Lestrade call?”

Sherlock huffed, “Not that game, this game.”  She gestured to the telly.  “It has no point!”

“And you are...happy about that?”

“The objectives are futile, no levels, there are no coins or reward systems, and there are no lives to lose, yet you can pay with your own money to buy things. Think!  What is the point of a pointless game available only through a single online retailer on this type of console?”

“Sherlock, I can’t think of anything when it’s-” John squinted at the clock and groaned, “-four in the morning.  God, my feet are killing me.”  She leaned forward to take off her shoes but they were already in a heap on the floor next to the couch.  It was only residual pain from having her toes crammed into a triangle for so long.  

“Connections, John.”  Sherlock flourished with the controller, tossing wires everywhere.  “Logins.  Swapping of information and passcodes.”

John pushed to a seated position.  “So the point is to meet people?”

“As per usual, you see but do not observe.  Go deeper.”

John pinched the bridge of her nose.  “I can’t go anywhere in my state.  Can’t you please just tell me.”

“Illegal activities.”

“Alright, I could have told you that.”

Sherlock spun back to the telly and poked at buttons until she reached a virtual shop.  “Purchase the item, receive the code, obtain nefarious goods.  Those that don’t know the system will be weeded out, simply playing a boring, mindless game.”

“But those that do know the system will purchase illegal things,” John finished and shook her sleepy head.  “Like Arnold Haywire?”

“But what did our Arny purchase?  What drove him to hire an assassin?”  Sherlock flipped through the icons and muttered to herself, “What have you been up to you naughty boy?”

John yawned and stretched out, pulling back into herself with a chill.  Right, she was barely dressed.  “I’m off to bed.  Try to get some sleep yeah?  I’ll message Greg in the morning to let him know what you found.”

Sherlock did not even bother to turn around.  “Who?”

“Never mind.”  John smiled and slipped up the stairs to tuck in.  

When John woke again, properly dressed in a baggy shirt and shorts, Sherlock was still in the same position in front of the telly with her computer out.  The only sign she had moved was that her suit was gone, replaced by the dressing gown that had fallen to the floor.  

As soon as John stepped into the room, Sherlock started speaking.  “Arnold Haywire was a very bad man.”

John scrubbed her eyes and called, “Good morning to you too then.”

Sherlock gestured and John peeked over her shoulder to see the laptop open to the Skivvies and Lemons website.  

“What am I looking at?” John asked. She had been on this website before.  It all still looked like underwear to her. 

“Once you purchase an item in the game, you receive an email.  That email contains a link with an encrypted passcode.  Open the website, input the link, upload the passcode, and you receive a file.  Open that file through the correct software and you have the item you bought through the game.”

John blinked at the webpage, all neon shades of green and yellow.  It did not look like a dark web black market. 

“Open anything incorrectly,” Sherlock added, “And the computer will get a virus, effectively wiping your hard drive.”

“And how do you know that?” John dared to ask. 

“Don’t turn on your computer,” Sherlock deadpanned. 

John ran a hand through her hair and growled, “What about your computer?”

“Mine?” She asked innocently.  “It’s over there.”  She gestured to the kitchen table.  “It’s fine.”

“Wait.” John leaned in to inspect the laptop closely.  “Then whose laptop is this?”

“Arny’s,” Sherlock drawled.

John slumped to the floor and rubbed at her aching eyes.  “And when did you steal his laptop?”

“Last night.  Or this morning if you prefer.”

“You didn’t take me?” John pouted.  

“You were asleep.  You were tired.  Besides, it’s just a little B and E.  I’m sure we’ll be doing that again.”  Sherlock gave her a quick smile before diving back to the computer.  “Arny was gracious and stupid enough to leave the directions for the game on a password protected file in a folder labeled Old Bills.  No doubt that is against the rules.”

John breathed deep and leaned back in.  “And what did you find?”

“It appears the reason Arny was so broke was that he spent most of his money buying videos through this network.  Very expensive videos.”

“What kind of videos?”

Sherlock fidgeted and clicked through the screens, passing back and forth between emails and logins until she pulled up a file and ran it through a harmless looking bit of malware checker.  A video quickly loaded and John’s mouth fell open.  A girl no more than twelve years old looked up at the camera, her arms bound above her head, a strip of cloth tied across her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. 

Sherlock did not hit play, she simply looked at John and growled.  “It seems he had a fetish for the younger generation.  He paid for videos of preteens performing various acts against their will.”  She turned back to the screen with a hard glare, fingers steepled under her chin.  “We may need to send Chloe a gift basket.”

John nodded in agreement, jaw clenching as she looked at the screen.  No doubt Sherlock had already watched it through, looking for information.  As much as John wanted to be of help, there was only so much she could brace herself for so early in the morning. 

“Turn that off,” John said and whipped out her phone.  “I’m calling Lestrade.”

After John finished ruining Lestrade’s morning with the evil in the world, she sat down in her chair and faced Sherlock.  

Sherlock was staring out at nothing, her hands tucked under her chin.  “We are missing a puzzle piece.  The lock box.”

“The lock box?”

“Did we enter a cave when I wasn’t looking?” She snapped.  “Yes!  Clearly Arny was going to use whatever was in it to make more money so he could continue with his habits.”

“I don’t think I’d call kiddie porn a habit, Sherlock.”

“The Millers are linked to this in some way.  Something in their attic was meant for him.  Something Moriarty knew about and is undoubtedly in possession of.”

“And this somehow leads to Arnold hiring an assassin?  Do you think someone found out about him?”

“I need more data,” she hummed into her palm.  

John sat silently and let Sherlock sort through her Mind Palace.  Arnold wanted to fund his game to get his porn on a network connected through the fake game.  He needed more money so he took a chance with a client that Chloe did not know about.  He died before he could reach whatever that thing may have been.  Before Arnold died, he reached out to a banker who paid an assassin to kill someone.  But who?  Someone linked to the game?

John sucked in a breath and asked, “How does a broke man afford an assassin?”

“Already there.”  Sherlock waved her off.  “I have at least ten different possibilities, nine of which are more likely.”

“What’s the tenth?”

“Sold a kidney.”

John snorted and shook her head.  This was a right mess.  Just like when she used to do puzzles with her mom and Harry’s cat would knock the pieces off the table.  They never knew what was missing because they could not see what fell.  “It’s hard to believe Chloe didn’t know about any of this.”

“You think she was a part of it?” Sherlock asked, her full attention zeroed in on John. 

John shifted, “No.  She really didn’t know about the lock box or the game.  I’m sure she wouldn’t have stayed if she knew about the kiddie porn, given she was mad about catching him cheating.”

“Caught him… No.” Sherlock drawled, her eyes darting around the air. 

“Yeah,” John shrugged.  “Though how he was smart enough to work that game and still get caught with another woman is beyond me.”

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped, her entire body jumping up.  “Oh, John!  John you brilliant, brilliant woman!”  She engulfed John’s shoulders with her hands and shook her.  “Never let anyone call you an idiot, Doctor Watson!”

John smiled up at her and mumbled, “I’ll remind you next time then.  But what exactly did I do?”

“Come on,” Sherlock jumped up and clapped.  “We’re going to see a manipulative, string-pulling, cult-leading bastard.” 

“A what?”

“A therapist!”

It was so good to know what Sherlock really thought about Ella. 

Sherlock searched for over an hour calling different offices.  John simply went through her morning routine, keeping one ear open.  

“Not good enough!” Sherlock yelled at the poor person on the other end of the burner phone.  “You will get us in today or my partner will kill herself!.... No I don’t want your hotlines.  I want an appointment…. Well, who are they?!”

John made them both breakfast and tea, even got in some light stretching, and cleaned up a bit of the papers from the ground.  Sherlock started dialing a new number, somehow managing to text at the same time on her own phone.  

Sherlock’s voice rose in pitch and she lathered a Welsh accent into her speech.  “Eli?... I can’t do this.  I know we had plans this morning, but I can’t.  I’m going to my sisters.  If you care, you’ll come meet me at eleven o’clock.”

Sherlock promptly dialed a new number and used the same accent to cancel an appointment, then switched back to her burner to call and ask if there was a cancellation. 

“Splendid,” Sherlock mumbled and hung up.  “John!”

John walked into the room, her eyebrows raised.  “Yes?”

“We’re leaving.  We have an appointment with Frank A. Grant.  He’s going to help us mend our relationship.”

“And by our relationship, you mean-”

“Yes, John!” Sherlock yelled.  “Our lesbian relationship.  Now hurry up.  We have twenty minutes to get there or they will cancel.

Sitting in a cab on the way to the therapist -the same one Chloe and Arny used, according to Sherlock- John stared out at the scenery and contemplated how she would pretend to be a lesbian.  “What are our names?”

Sherlock glanced up from her phone for only a second.  “Have you forgotten your name?  Are you having a stroke?  Shall I write it on the back of your hand?”

“We’re using our real names?” John asked, turning to her. 

She shrugged, “People know who we are, some assume we are a couple.  One more will make no difference.”

John sighed and shook her head.  Martin really was not going to like this.  She may gloss over it in the blog post as well. “And for what reason are we going to say we are there?”

“Whatever you like.  Stick to the truth as much as possible.”

“Like how you never do the dishes and leave cocks on the wall?”

Sherlock tilted her head, her mouth twitching.  “It’s relevant to the case.”

“It is not,” John slipped back into her seat.  “And what are you going to tell him about me?”

“That you find your bisexuality hard to grasp and keep feeling the need to gravitate towards men though you have a relationship with me.  It hurts my feelings.  At least it would, if I had any.”

John’s mouth fell open, “What?”  What was with being called bisexual so much lately?  Was she blatantly staring at women’s chests without realizing?  “And you do have feelings.  I’ve seen them.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“You teared up during that wallflower movie Molly made us watch during that horribly awkward Christmas party she threw for us.”

“That was out of pure pain.  You made me sit through the entire thing while Molly snotted up half a tissue box.”

“No it wasn’t.”

Sherlock ignored her until they reached the office.  It was located inside a large building with many different types of offices.  All very normal, if John’s experience with Ella was anything to sneeze at.  Near the back of the building they found the plaque that read  _ Balric, Grant, and Talbot Counseling _ .  

The man behind the receptionist desk was quite miffed to see Sherlock come in, his back straightening and his smile automatically dropping to a frown.  John stepped forward, trying to spare him at least some pain.  He was already dealing with an angry customer, and on a Saturday too.

“-did not cancel!  Just let me call again.  He’s not picking up!” The woman yelled and slammed her phone’s screen and spun to an empty chair.  “I swear to god, Eli, you sad sack of shite-”

“Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes for Dr. Grant,” John said.

The man nodded shortly and said, “Take a seat.”

The waiting room was small but cozy, filled with potted plants and magazines.  Sherlock tapped her feet, impatiently drumming her fingers across her thigh.  

After a ten minute wait, including the woman yelling ‘Stop lying!  I didn’t call!  So who does that leave?’ and storming out of the office, the secretary perked up and said, “You can go in.  Third door on the right.”

John offered her thanks and followed Sherlock down the small passage until they reached an unmarked door.  Sherlock strode in, in all her unbound glory, hard enough to knock the door against the wall.  There were a few chairs and a desk, books lining the walls along with artwork and other pictures, but no one was inside.  

“Sorry,” a woman’s voice called from behind as she stepped into the room and shut the door.  “I had to print something.  Let me find where Dr. Grant puts his pens, and I’ll be with you in a mo.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened.  “You’re not Frank.”

The woman shook her head and searched the desk, smiling as she said, “No.  I’m Dr. Balric.  Dr. Grant had an emergency and he needed to step out.  I’ll be covering your session today.  The first one is mostly paperwork I’m afraid.”

Sherlock turned to John and they both shared a twitch of the eyes.  That was all very convenient for a man they wanted to interview.  

“We really wanted to see Dr. Grant, you see,” John said as politely as she could, burning up time as Sherlock scoured the room.  “A friend recommended him.”

Dr. Balric gave a stiffer smile.  “I assure you, I am just as qualified.”

“And how long have you worked here, Ms. Balric?”  Sherlock asked, all charm, walking towards the small window and shuffling around in front of the bookcase.  

“Two years,” she answered and set her papers down.  “But I’ve been practicing for six.” 

“And how long has Dr. Grant worked here?” Sherlock’s fingers trailed over spines of books, swiping away the dust that collected. 

“Six, I believe,” she responded shortly.  “He’s been practicing for longer.”

“I can see that,” Sherlock drawled and pointed at the certificates and degrees framed on the wall.  “Does he see many patients?”

“This usually works as a give and take, Ms. Holmes,” she said with an eyebrow raised.  “Tell me more about yourself and why you’re here and I’ll be willing to answer your questions.”

“What a waste of my time,” Sherlock growled and spun out of the room. 

John looked back at the shocked therapist and threw up her hands.  “Sorry.  She really wanted Dr. Grant.  I’m sure you’re more than qualified but...Sorry.” 

John jogged down the hall after her, waving to the receptionist before throwing herself into the building and out onto the street. 

Sherlock was on her phone, tapping away.  

“Anything?” John asked. 

“He’s a middle aged man with a girlfriend.  Extremely qualified. He has control issues, no doubt why he entered into the psychiatric field.  Not close with his family, if he has any.  Gambles.  Is cheating on his diet.  Recently took a trip to Spain where he cheated on said girlfriend.”

“How did you figure out all that?”

An honest-to-god smile lit up Sherlock’s face as she spun towards the building.  With a flourish she pocketed her phone and pulled her suit jacket into place.  Buildings shone bright behind her, cars zipped by, people dodged their way around each other, but she reigned over all the madness.  After one giant breath she gleefully dove into an energetic glimpse of her mind’s eye. 

“Girlfriend, easy.  The calendar on his desk has lunches scheduled every Tuesday and Friday, no name, he knows who he’s meeting.  Same thing with date nights.  This Friday he has lunch slash dinner with a person with no name.  Could be close friend or family member, but men rarely meet with someone that much if they are not getting sex.  Statistically speaking it would be a girlfriend, especially given that he went to a strip club featuring women.’

“We know he is qualified easily enough by the framed degrees on his wall, all old and of various kinds.  However, Dr. Balric was very distinct in her attitude towards him, defending his prowess.  No doubt she looks up to him as some sort of mentor.  That and it would have been extremely difficult to book this time without forcing a cancellation.’

“Control issues.  Obvious by the way he keeps his things.  He’ll be furious when he sees Dr. Balric touched his pens.  Everything is in a specific place down to the tissues box with a tissue folded to a corner instead of flopping over the side.  All books are colour-coordinated and aligned by height.  Whether this is medical or purely a personality flaw does not matter.  He needs the control.  Either wanting to understand his place in the world or the ability to control the people around him lead to his interest in the human mind and psychology itself.’

“Family.  There are no pictures in that office of any kind of family, not even one of the girlfriend, leading me to believe the relationship will not last.  Any knick knacks to be seen are just as meticulous as the books.  Color, shape, size, theme.  Suggesting he bought them himself.  No gifts from family or he does not display them.  Not close.’

“The gambling can be seen in the photographs.  They are hung prominently, more so than his certificates.  They show cities that are known for their casinos.  Los Angeles, San Juan, Palm Beach.  All places he won big, no doubt.  That and every Wednesday he has poker night written on his schedule.  

“Cheating on diet?  Too easy.  Who isn’t?  Chocolate bars in his desk yet weight watchers wrappers in his wastebasket.’

“Spain and the cheating of said girlfriend is a bit of a long shot, to be fair.  One of his pens was still in its plastic wrapper, not matching any of the others, something that would cause anyone with issues such as his much discomfort.  Therefore it is very new.  In the calendar there were two weeks with a line drawn through the center, no doubt hinting at a vacation though he did not write down where.  The pen was tacky, showing a dancing girl in salsa outfit.  When moved, the girl’s top falls down, exposing breasts.  This does not match the taste of our Dr. Grant in the slightest, suggesting he either purchased it while drunk or it was from someone else.  Most likely, male friends enjoying the company of topless girls wanting to remember their time away together.  Away from their girlfriends, topless girls, no picture of the girlfriend.  Probably cheating.  He managed to make it back to his girlfriend for dinner Friday night before returning to his destination.  No doubt guilt ridden and wanting to keep their date night -the only one circled on his calendar.  The pen could be purchased in many places, however, among the littering of trash in the bin there was an airline ticket receipt for Barcelona.  He could be traveling via Barcelona but the pen suggests he stayed, as does his ability to return for a single date night over the weekend.”

Sherlock was practically gasping after all her deductions were laid out, her eyes searching John for understanding and approval.

“Amazing.” John gasped and giggled.  “You are absolutely amazing.”

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly but her eyes were gleaming.  

How had anyone ever not been enchanted by Sherlock’s genius?  Sure, she was an acquired taste, but after cracking through that steel exterior, there was nothing to do but marvel.  

Sherlock dragged John into the alley next to the building and they both looked up into the glare.  

“Are we coming back?” John asked, squinting.  

“Tonight.”  Sherlock turned back to the street and smirked.  “I told you we would be breaking and entering again soon.” 

When the sun had long set and the streets were nearly clear of people, they returned to the empty building with Sherlock's lock picks.  John cleared the rooms with her gun leading the way, but they were most definitely alone. 

Sherlock first dove for the receptionist’s computer, hacking the password far too easily.  “Sticky note, back of computer.”  

John peeked at a small bit of yellow sticking out from under the computer.  She peeled it off and read the password.   _ 3ndOFyear! _  “End of year?”

“He’s going to quit his job and go back to university.”  John did not need to ask how Sherlock knew that because she nodded to the corner of the desk and said, “Pamphlets tucked away with the takeaway menus.”

John could barely see the edge picture of a school building peeking out from under the local Chinese menu.  

“He won’t make it,” Sherlock continued.  “Can’t afford it.  Obvious by clothes and hair.”

“Some men like their hair long, Sherlock.”

“Layers,” Sherlock snipped.  “They’ve grown long but they exist.  Professional cut from five months ago, give or take.  Can’t afford to get a new one, not confident enough to do it himself.”

“Have you found anything?” John asked, changing the subject. 

“Moving the records now.”  Sherlock whipped out a flash drive and inserted it into the computer.  “All names of the patients for Doctor Grant will soon be ours.  We have to go to his office for any personal notes.”

The records took a few minutes to load, the tick-tock of the clock booming with echos in the small room.  When it was done, Sherlock wiped down the keyboard and mouse and led the way to Grant’s office. 

When the door opened and they both walked in, Sherlock froze, her eyes locked on the desk.  The blue glow of the window illuminated a small green and red striped box, tied off with a red bow.  

“What is it?” John asked. 

“It’s for us,” Sherlock replied, a smile curling half her mouth. “A present.”  She swept behind the desk and plucked a small white card from under the ribbon. 

“From who?” John quickly joined her.  “The therapist?”

“Think again,” Sherlock held out the card for John to read. 

Written in thick red lipstick was a note.  

_ I’m tired of waiting xoxo _

“Moriarty,” John hummed.  “She sent you a present?” 

“She knows we know about the video game.  It’s a reward.”

“Or a distraction,” John suggested and Sherlock nodded.  “Should we open it?”

“Could be dangerous.”  Sherlock cocked her head and wiggled her brow.  

John smiled.  It would not be out of character for Moriarty to present a bomb in the form of a gift.  She nodded towards the desk and Sherlock reached out.  Her long slender fingers slipped over the edge of the bow, and John’s heart raced.  Sherlock pulled the ribbons apart and dropped the threads to the desk.  She slowly lifted the top of the box and revealed a bed full of salt, two small balls of flesh resting on top of it.  

Sherlock pulled out her phone and turned the flash into the box.

“Are those…” John trailed off.

“Yes.” 

“Testicles.”   

Sherlock sank to the desk and closed in on the wrapping paper, sniffed the air around it, and moved to the salt.  She touched the edge of the box and brought her fingertip to her lips.  She blanched away from the taste and smacked her mouth.  “Dead Sea salt.  Testicles removed recently.  Quality paper covering a generic cardboard box.  Lipstick matches the other messages from Moriarty.”

“Is the Dead Sea thing a pun?” John asked, half joking. 

“Don’t hypothesize,” Sherlock huffed.  “We don’t know if the man who these belonged to is alive or not.  We need to get these back to Baker Street as soon as possible.”

“Aren’t you going to grab the doctor’s notes?”

“Moriarty took them.” Sherlock picked up the box with reverence.  “She left these in their place.  Another piece to the puzzle.  Just what I thought.”

“These balls were what you thought the next puzzle piece would be?” 

“The cuts are recent.  They do not belong to any of our known victims.”  Sherlock carefully flipped the top of the box back into place and collected the ribbon.  “We have a new person to search for.”

John texted Lestrade on the way back to 221. 

_ If anyone is missing some testicles, they’re at 221B -JW _

Lestrade answered fairly soon for it being past midnight.

_ I have words about Sherlock breaking someone’s balls but will hold off.  - L _

It took seven hours for Lestrade to contact them with the castrated man’s name.  Sherlock finished running her tests at home and had been about ready to visit Molly when he popped up in their doorway.  

“Whoa,” Lestrade shifted in the doorframe and slapped his hands against his thighs.  His gaze roamed the mess on the floor, the papers, the computer, telly, and straight to the purple cock on the wall.  “That’s… something.”

John shuffled to meet him. Sherlock was too busy in the kitchen with the testis.  “Hello, Greg.  Excuse the mess.”

“Do you realize you have a-”

“Purple cock on the wall?” John smiled shortly.  “Yes, I do.  Come in.”

Lestrade walked in and inspected the holes surrounding the drawn penis.  “Remind me not to get on Sherlock’s bad side,” he muttered and adjusted his trousers. 

“All the cocks are connected,” Sherlock called from behind her microscope.  “I told you.  It’s all cocks.”

“I can see that,” Lestrade said, looking down at the box of salt still holding the testicles.  “Is the salt...you know.  Keeping them fresh?”

John nodded.  “It won’t last for long but it works for now.”

“Well, won’t be a point to them much longer,” Lestrade said, shifting away.  “They can’t be sewn back on, can they?”

John shook her head.  “The man’s still alive then?”

“More than that,” Lestrade said.  “He’s an inmate.  Name of Ben Noles.  Sentenced for-”

“-rape and murder.”  Sherlock spun in her chair, her eyes widening, her face falling open in excitement.  “Oh yes, yes, yes.”

John tilted her head.  “The name sounds familiar.”

“That was one of your cases,” Lestrade confirmed.  “A few weeks back or so.  You caught him for raping his girlfriend’s aunt and killing her with a hired gun.”

John sucked in her breath.  “That sleazy bastard from the sex club!”

“From the-” Lestrade shook his head.  “I don’t want to know.  I just came for the testicles and to tell you he had them chopped off in prison.  No one saw it happen and they can’t find footage.  He’s in the clinic right now, won’t be out anytime soon.  If you want to talk to him though, you need to go through the proper channels.  I don’t want any more calls about you paying visits as reporters, Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock waved him off.  “Not necessary.  He won’t tell me what I need to know.”

“So you’re not going to work the case?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock rolled her eyes.  “Finding out who ripped off a rapist's balls?  Not worth my time.  Bigger fish to fry.”

Lestrade nodded to them both and snatched up the box, carefully wrapping it in plastic before tucking it under his arm.  “Alright, let me know if you find anything.”  He looked to John, knowing who was actually going to keep him in the loop.  “Have a good day, ladies.”

“See you later, Greg.”  John walked him out.  

Sherlock was mumbling at her, as if she were still in the room.  John chose to ignore her incoherency and ask her own question. 

“So,” she started, leaning against the counter.  “Why did Moriarty not kill Ben Noles?”

“Why does she ever keep anyone alive?” Sherlock asked, completely ignorant to her own rhetoric.  “Information.”

“If he has information, shouldn’t we go talk to him?”  John asked, expecting to be called an idiot any second.

“He won’t tell us anything we don’t already know.  Moriarty would see to it that he does not give up her game.”

“Then what information does he have?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and threw her head back, pleading with the ceiling.  “Don’t jump ahead of your own brain, John.  Think first!  How is Ben Noles connected to our cock case?”

Other than the letters left by Moriarty and the cock theme, nothing came immediately to mind.  John knew that would not be a good enough answer so she tried to dive a little deeper. 

There was: an incarcerated rapist killer without balls, a dead broke pawn shop dealer with a horrific fetish, said pawn shop dealer’s incarcerated ignorant wife, a runaway therapist, a dead banker with an affinity for prostitutes, and a dead assassin.  Not to mention a black market video game and a missing lock box.

If Chloe was ruled out of the equation, that left the rapist, the pawn shop dealer, the therapist, the banker, and the assassin.  They had nothing on Arnold connecting him to the others, only to the game and the lock box.  The banker and the assassin were clear in their connection.  That left Ben Noles.  How was Noles connected to any one of them?

John supposed Noles could be a part of the game or involved with the box and its mysterious contents.  Perhaps he knew Arnold in some way or the Millers who lived in the house where the lock box was kept.  Maybe even through the therapist.  But how was he connected to an assassin and his banker?  That would imply Noles wanted to hire an assassin to kill someone. 

John gasped aloud, astounding herself with how slow she could be.  “Haywire didn't hire the assassin!  Noles did!”

Sherlock flung her head back around and smirked, “It is nice to be reminded you still have some neuron functionality.  The police never did catch the gun Noles hired to kill his girlfriend’s aunt.  I suppose we have Moriarty to thank for finishing the job for us.”

John frowned.  “I doubt we would have killed the assassin and hung him by cock rings in a public urinal.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “With a new name I can evaluate the therapist files in a new light.  However, there still is one outlier.  The Millers.  They seemed innocent enough to begin with, and I foolishly let them slip from my radar.  But they must be connected in some way.”

“What about the aunt?” John asked.  “Do you think she’s connected.”

“They are all connected,” Sherlock grumbled, slipped into the living room and flopped on her chair with her laptop.  “All the cocks are connected!”

John shook away the visual that created and went to work re-reading the notes she had on the Ben Noles case and sifting through any relevant news in all the London papers.  After all, they had yet to figure out what was in that lock box and anything strange was usually relevant. 


	15. Iris

The work day at the clinic was boring, but easy.  Sarah just had a rather rotten breakup, so chatting with her had made John feel like her friend again.  Which was very nice to have after their failed girl’s night circus outing.  

When John came home, it was to Sherlock draped across the couch, her hands tucked under her chin, her eyes darting across the ceiling.  

John sighed, “Sherlock.”

“No.”

John planted herself in front of the sofa and put her hands on her hips.  “I haven’t even said anything.”

“It’s all in your sigh.”

John tucked her smile away.  “Then you should listen to me and my sigh and go to bed.”

“No.  Dull.  Thinking.  Go away.”

“You’ve been working nonstop for-” John checked the clock.  “-fifty nine hours.  Do you remember the last time you didn’t sleep that long?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  I was only narcoleptic for a few minutes.”

“Yeah, in the middle of the street when we were chasing the bad guy!”  John threw up her arms.  “This is Moriarty.  I can’t have you at anything but your top game.  As your doctor I am ordering you to go get some sleep.”

Sherlock twitched but did not get up.  “It is exactly because this is Moriarty that I must keep working.  There must be a reason she is involved in all this.”

“And after a nap, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“I have napped.”

John leaned over her, forcing Sherlock to look at her.  “Closing your eyes and deep breathing does not count as sleeping.”  Sherlock opened her mouth but John cut her off.  “And you are not a monk so meditating for five minutes will not replace anything.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched and she snapped, “It’s twenty minutes.” 

“I don’t care unless you are unconscious.”  John tugged Sherlock’s limp arm up, forcing her into an almost seated position where she mostly leaned away.  “And don’t try to tell me your transport sleeps when you’re in your mind palace.  Your mind needs a rest too.  Go.  To.  Bed.”

“I am getting somewhere, John.” Sherlock complained and hunched herself as far into the couch as she could get, dislodging John’s arm.  “Gabby Miller.”  She pointed to the opposite wall where new information was taped up, pins poking into the corners, a pen knife stabbing through the center of one paper.  “Yoga friend with Stephanie Pablo.  Married name, Stephanie Cornette.  Aunt by marriage to Kristina Smackle.  Ex girlfriend to Ben Noles.”

John turned back to her, forgetting the argument for the moment.  “You found the connection between Noles and the Millers.”

“I have no doubt that the lock box and its contents were kept in Gabby Miller’s attic for safe keeping until Arnold Haywire could retrieve it.”

John shook her head.  “So, the Millers are innocent?  They have nothing to do with it?”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock hummed.  “They have retreated abroad ever since they found Arny dead in their attic.  No one has been able to make contact with them.”

“They ran away?”

“Or they were killed.”  Sherlock stretched and brought her hands back together, ending in exactly the same position John found her.  “Moriarty does not like loose ends.”

John sank into her seat.  “She had a kid, Sherlock.”

“And Moriarty does not discriminate.  You know this, John.”  Sherlock froze for a moment before jerking and leaping to a seated position.  “Oh, that would be interesting.  Kids usually play video games, do they not?”

“You’re suggesting their kid bought illegal goods through a networking game?”

“Don’t be an idiot.  If the kid had other games he had the console and the mother had access to it.  Ben Noles’ computer is locked in evidence and Lestrade is being impossible.  If I go to the Millers and hack into their-”

“No,” John said simply and rose to her feet.  “You are not going anywhere.  It is six on a Friday, people will see you.  You would remember that, if you weren’t so tired.”

“Please,” she scoffed.  “I know what time it is.  Unlike your simple mind, mine is capable of keeping track subconsciously.  In fact, I am capable of keeping track of all the time zones and that ridiculous notion of daylight savings time.”

“I’m not about to start naming cities for you to tell me what time it is.  Or argue about bloody daylight savings time.  Again.”

“Besides,” Sherlock continued right on.  “Shouldn’t you be having a date with Muhammad-”

“Martin.”

“-tonight?  Go bother his plebeian brain while I sort through more important things.”

John sighed.  “No.  Martin and I do not have a date tonight.”

Sherlock perked up.  “You-”  Then she slumped.  “Ah.  I see.  It’s a sex night and you are about to start bleeding.”

“Sherlock!”

“Oh, you are a grown woman, Doctor Watson!  You menstruate.  Don’t be so dramatic about your biology.”

“Seriously?”  John snorted.  “You’re telling me not to be dramatic about my biology?  You’re literally refusing to sleep.  And no, that’s not why I don’t have a date.  He’s was gone on his two week conferences for school, remember?  We met last week even though he wasn’t supposed to come back yet.  You made me wear that gray- Oh why am I telling you.  He’s busy making up lesson plans.”

“Week long conferences?  That seems like a long time for a teacher.  Are you sure he doesn’t have a wife already?  At least that would make him interesting.”

John sighed through her nose and shook her head.  “I’m going to ignore that because you’re so tired.   Now, for the last time, go to bed.”

“For the last time, no!”  Sherlock slumped further into the couch, tossed herself against the back, and curled into the fetal position.  

John would have loved to believe she would fall asleep like that, but knew she would be too stubborn to do so.  It was very tempting to just pick her up and plop her in bed.  John was fully capable of doing so, but she would hear about it for months after or Sherlock would return the favor and drop her into a cold shower.  

She looked around the mess and sighed.  She was too tired to clean it herself.  Doing chores would properly exhaust Sherlock. If she listened to John, she would have a little break from thinking, entertain the chance to complain about something else, and then fall right into bed. 

John slipped up to her bedroom and quickly returned with the black lace choker dangling in her hand.   

She held it up just above Sherlock’s ear, tickling the tip of it with the chain.  Sherlock bat it away and spun around, glaring, until she saw what had annoyed her.  She froze, her face crumpling in unexpected confusion. 

“You can’t make me do the dishes or the wall,” John said and held it out further.  “The floor was alright though.”

Sherlock was smart enough to know when she was being manipulated off the couch, but her eyes were wide and dark and she reached for the necklace, slipping it out of John’s grasp.  

John sank to her knees and moved her hair so Sherlock could reach the back of her neck.  The necklace clasped, Sherlock tapped her shoulder, and she spun around again.  

“Your safe word is-” Sherlock paused a moment and said, “-iris.  Repeat it back to me.”

“Iris, miss,” John tried to say without smirking victoriously. 

Sherlock sat up and rubbed at her eyes, dragging her fingers down her slender neck.  “I’ve been very busy lately,” she began and paused. 

“Yes, miss.”  She never said John could not talk.  

“I’ve run behind on some important things,” Sherlock drawled, looking around the room.  

“Would you like me to cook you something, miss?” John tried. 

Sherlock waved her off.  “I’m not hungry.”

John squirmed.  Sherlock had not eaten at all that day, as far as John knew.  There was a very low probability she ate while John was at work.  

“Come with me,” Sherlock suddenly stood.  “On your feet.”

John snapped to attention and Sherlock led the way to her bedroom. 

Being in her bedroom led John towards a momentary panic attack.  She had done a brilliant job of purposefully not remembering what happened the last time they played -though she still dreamed of cool linoleum pressed against her writhing back, her hands grasping at Sherlock’s ankles. 

That was where she put an immediate stop to that thought.

The room was as precise and clean as ever, not even a sock out of place.  John held in her comment about the rest of the flat looking like a bomb went off while Sherlock lived like a decent human being.  

Sherlock rummaged through her closet and produced a large handful of shirts that she tossed onto the bed, a few pairs of trousers tumbling after them.  From the same closet she took out an iron and board and set them up next to her bed.  

“My clothes need to be ironed.”  She grabbed a crumpled shirt and held it up.  “If you screw any of them up, you will be washing them by hand and redoing them.  If you burn anything, I'll be burning some of your clothes as retribution.  Understand?”

John eyed the pile.  That would not be too hard.  “Yes, miss.”

“You have observed I am allowing you to talk,” Sherlock said, jumped onto her bed and rested against the headboard. 

“Yes, miss,” John nodded, waiting as patiently as Beth for the go ahead.  

“If this is to be the intended distraction from my very important work-”  Sherlock sighed and looked to her closed door, seeming to question her sense in agreeing to this.  “-you need to distract me.”

“Distract you how, miss?”  John asked, her brow pinching.  

“Tell me a story.  Something about you that I don’t already know.”  She pushed back into the headboard and propped a pillow behind her back.  She fell into it and threw her hands behind her head.  “Make it a good one.  Work while you do it.  Go on.”

John picked up one of the many shirts and contemplated what to share with Sherlock.  The woman seemed to know her entire life story within five minutes of meeting and they had lived together for almost two years.  It would have to be something from her childhood, she supposed. 

As she laid the shirt on the board and started spraying it down with the iron, she was reminded of her mother.  Back then, of course, the water wasn’t available inside the iron.  It was through a spray bottle that could all too easily be made into a weapon.    

“My mum,” she started, ironing as she talked.  “Was always a bit old fashioned.  She was a stay at home mum.  She did all the chores, ironed my dad’s clothes, that sort of thing.  She would always make a game of chores with me and Harry.  Who can clean their room faster and who can vacuum up a room with their eyes closed.” 

“That seems, ill advised,” Sherlock said, a creeping smile shadowing her features. 

John snorted out a laugh.  “Oh, very.  I once broke the telly doing that.  I threw the handle down in victory and it smashed right through the screen.  My father was not happy about that.”  John’s smile fell at the memory of her dad’s hand wrapped around her wrist, her eyes blurred with tears. 

“What did you get if you won?” Sherlock interrupted. 

John smiled gratefully and flipped the shirt.  “My mum was always baking.  It’s amazing I wasn’t fat growing up.”

“Mycroft would have loved her.”

“She did make the best chocolate studded biscuits.  They were always underbaked and gooey.  She entered them in this contest once.  Harry and I really wanted our mum to win so we thought we would help.  Being kids, we thought that there was one ingredient everyone loved.  Sugar.”

Sherlock snorted from the bed, probably already deducing the end of the story. 

John continued anyway, “So we went down to the kitchen late at night and opened up her finished batch and sprinkled what we thought was sugar all over the top.  As you may have guessed, it wasn’t sugar.  It was salt.”  John’s smile burst and she shook her head.  “One of the judges actually liked it.  Asked her for the recipe and everything.”

“Your mother find out?” Sherlock asked. 

“After she tasted one she guessed.” John laughed.  “She made us both eat one.  It was absolutely foul.  I needed four glasses of milk just to wash the taste out.” 

The shirt was done so John held it up.  Sherlock’s eyes darted over it and she nodded once.  John grabbed one of the hangers and placed it in the closet.  She was probably messing up some color coordination scheme but Sherlock would just fix it later anyway. 

John turned around and started on the next shirt.  “Would you like to hear a story about one of my ex boyfriends, miss?”

“If you think I would like it.” 

John burst into a story about her alien enthusiast ex and their trip the the Egyptian pyramids, following it up with more stories about secondary school, her love triangle with the rugby team captain which resulted in a strange game of frisbee golf, her beach holiday in America, and the time Harry thought she could take care of a pet iguana.  

When she was finishing up the last bit of clothes, she could not help thinking that it had been rather nice.  They always seemed to be running around with new cases and talks like these were far and few between.  Sherlock was not exactly opening up on her end but it was amazing that she stayed and listened to everything John had to say, her head lulled against the headboard in contentment, not once screaming about being bored. 

When John finished her last story, she almost walked out of the room of her own accord, forgetting that the game was still in play.  Lucky for her, Sherlock remembered exactly who was in charge. 

“You’ve done a good job.” Sherlock slipped off the bed and walked around her, surveying the clothes in the closet, hands locked behind her back.  “Now it’s your turn.”  She turned around and caught John’s gaze.  “You will strip off all outer layers, leaving yourself in your undergarments.  You will lay face down on the bed and wait for my return.”

“What a-”

“My apologies,” Sherlock interrupted, though she did not seem very apologetic.  “You are no longer aloud to speak unless it is your safeword.  Say it aloud for me so I know you did not forget it.”

John ripped her eyes away and looked at the bed, barely rumpled from where Sherlock had sat.  “Iris.”

“Good.” Sherlock promptly exited the room, flipping off the light switch as she went. 

John stared at the closed door.  Her joy over their one sided, relaxing conversation seemed to flee, replaced by the curl of her stomach.  A bed was meant for two things and Sherlock was not asking her to sleep.  

No sex.  They had not had sex.  They were not going to have sex.  It was sexual because that’s what D/s was.  Usually. 

Sherlock was not asking John to lay naked and waiting for her return.  She was not even asking for her to put the thong back on.  She was just leaving John in her pants to wonder what she could have possibly meant by it being her turn.  

She double checked.  Her pants could not vibrate.

John tentatively pulled her shirt over her head and undid her trousers, folding and tucking everything in the corner of the room.  She then shuffled her way onto the bed, cautiously resting her hands under her head.  It took a bit of shifting before she was comfortable, but by then she had decided to put her hair up and had to go through the whole process over again.  

Time was ticking by slow.  Sherlock was taking her time, crashing around in the kitchen.  There was a very good possibility that she had suddenly remembered something for the case and would leave John on the bed waiting as she returned to work.  That would make this absolutely humiliating.  She checked the clock and decided she would give it twenty minutes before she snuck away. 

It only took five for Sherlock to return, her hands behind her back.  “Close your eyes.”

John did.  It was only partially out of relief.

The bed sank as Sherlock sat on the edge.  Her cool fingers made John jump as they stroked her bangs away from her face.  Her palm pulled at John’s forehead, lifting her from the pillow.  A smooth silk fabric skimmed across her cheeks and landed over John’s closed eyes.  Sherlock tied it to the back of her head tightly, leaving the ends of it dangling around her ponytail.  

John was tempted to poke at the fabric, to see what it was, but she was certain Sherlock did not want her to move.  She blinked her eyes open and saw nothing.  The fabric was too close to make out what it was and the slits of light peeking in from the bottom were only big enough to show the bed underneath her.  

“This is an experiment,” Sherlock teased.  “Some people enjoy what I am about to do, some do not.  You always have your safeword.”

The image of a paddle flashed in John’s mind and she twitched.  There was no way Sherlock was talking about something like that…  Right?  They were not there yet.  If they would ever get there.  That was something non sexually sexual. 

Well, she was blindfolded and half naked in Sherlock’s bed, so perhaps they were there. 

The bed creaked, jumped, and wiggled as Sherlock adjusted herself, straddling John and sitting on her arse.  John shifted under her, easily able to hold her lanky body.  Something cool and smooth slipped against her side along with something long and plastic.  

Before John could determine what those things were from touch alone, Sherlock’s hands started kneading into her flesh.  Those delicate hands pet into John’s skin, working up and down and out from her spine, relaxing John completely into the mattress. 

John sighed aloud, barely wondering why she needed to wear a blindfold if she was getting a massage.  

Then, Sherlock’s hands disappeared and the smooth and plastic things were removed.  There was a click and then nothing but the sound of the fabric rustling under John’s cheek.  

One of Sherlock’s hands returned to her good shoulder, pressing and petting, side to side and back and forth.  Until, suddenly, there was a small, sharp, hot shock in the center of the spot Sherlock had just been working.  John jerked her head up and hissed in a breath as Sherlock’s fingertip circled the tiny dot.   

Sherlock hummed aloud, a sound John swore she could feel vibrate through the legs wrapped around her. 

When John had her breath back under control, she lowered her head to her hands once again.  Sherlock’s hand returned to her back, this time petting near the top of her spine.  

John expected the splash of heat this time and twitched into the mattress without lifting away.  She sucked air through her nose and was suddenly hit with the smell of honey. 

Candle.  Sherlock was melting candle wax on her.  

Sherlock’s hand continued to pet down her spine, carefully dropping beads of wax between her shoulder blades, timing them out between John’s breaths.  The wax hardened along her skin and every time she moved she could feel it cracking.  When Sherlock reached the dip in John spine, the heat suddenly intensified, the burn stronger and lasting longer. 

John’s gasp escaped in time with the pound of her heart and she had to burrow her head into her arms to keep from making any noise.  None of it hurt but it was always startling.  Her skin had always been sensitive and her spine was starting to tingle. 

Sherlock’s finger swept through the latest bubble of wax, not completely melted, pushing more heat down into the dip of her back.  John moved with her, shifting back against Sherlock above her, pushing herself back down into the bed, her sex rubbing against the sheets.

A noise came from Sherlock but John could not identify the meaning behind it.  Sherlock shifted on top of her and went back to dotting her vertebrae.  There was never any warning about when the wax would drop or how close it would be to her skin.  Every time it made John jump and her body quake until she felt as hot as the candle flame itself.  

When Sherlock reached the end of her back, she dipped the candle close and splashed another large drop, swiping the heat from side to side over the top of John’s arse.  John tasted silk as she groaned into the pillows.  

The twitching continued as Sherlock carefully removed herself and went down one leg and then the other, leaving John panting against the bedspread, her hands fisting the sheets and her blindfold catching on her fingernails.  

“Look at you,” Sherlock cooed when she was done.  “I wish I could take a picture.”

John squirmed, her legs shifting and cracking more of the wax. 

“I would send it to your boyfriend.  He’d finally see what a lovely whore you are.”  Sherlock’s nails tapped at John’s ankle and she scraped them up slow, wads of wax collecting under manicured nails, all the way up until she reached her arse.  

John twitched some more, her body grinding into the bed, her knees tickling and her center heating.  She gasped aloud as Sherlock did the other leg.  A small whine escaped into the folds of the bedspread when it was over.  

The bed dipped as Sherlock leaned over her, her hands petting and scraping, rubbing the wax across the stretch of her tacky skin.  

“He’s never heard you make these sounds,” Sherlock whispered, scraping her nails against the sensitive rise of John’s arse, effectively making her moan.  “You’re only a whore for me.”

John bit the inside of her cheek and shuffled back against the bed.  Martin really would not like this.  And it was not as if they never had sex.  She was attracted to him, on some levels.  The ones that mattered.  He heard her moan before.

“With your pink body and the marks from your blindfold, I would deduce you to be a slag.”

John shifted back into the bed and took a deep breath.  Would Martin notice those things if they Skyped later?

“He’s never seen you like this because he can’t do it for you.  Not like I can.”

John sucked in a breath and said, “Sherl-”

“Youhooooo,”  Mrs. Hudson’s voice called from the living room.  “Ladies? Are you in?”

Sherlock growled and pushed away from the bed, calling out, “Stay here.”

John stayed in the room but not face down.  She pushed herself up and abruptly started brushing away the wax she could reach, listening to the two talk in the next room.  Sherlock had not even shut the door.  

“Hello Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock greeted sharply.  “Rather busy.  No time for-”

“Oh but is John around?”  Mrs. Hudson asked, never failing to combine the sounds of John and Joan to make a name that sounded more like Joanne.  John snagged Sherlock’s dressing gown and threw it on, tossed the blindfold -which turned out to be a tie- to the bed, and walked out into the room.  “I need her to look at my plumbing.  You see, my sink-”  

“Hello, Mrs. H,” John greeted warmly.

Sherlock snapped her head around.  “John you can’t-”

“I love your dress,” John cut her off, gesturing at Mrs. Hudson.  Her dress was a usual of hers, modest and purple, so it would be an odd compliment, but it had a purpose.  “It’s the color of an iris.  I’ve always liked those.”

Sherlock glared unhappily and John challenged back with a weak smile.  If Sherlock was going to use their scenes to undermine her boyfriend, she would be severely disappointed.  

“Oh am I interrupting something?”  Mrs. Hudson asked, with a sly smile. 

With John’s bed rumpled hair and the lack of clothes and red marks, there was no doubt she was mistaking the level of their relationship.  Again.  

“I have a boyfr- Never mind.  It’s alright.  I’ll come down now.”  John gestured to the stairs.  “Let me grab my kit.”

“Thank you, dear.”

John rushed up the stairs and changed into jeans and a t-shirt, quickly grabbed her tool kit, and moving down the stairs to flat A.  Mrs. Hudson’s sink was easy enough to fix, just a bit of a leak, but she wanted to feed her biscuits and tea and John was not about to say no to that. 

By the time John trudged back up the stairs, it was past nine.  Sherlock was sitting on the couch, biting her finger and staring at the turned off telly.  She refused to turn towards John. 

John sighed.  She expected this.  “Look, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t apologize,” Sherlock snapped, still not looking at her.  “Never apologize for using your safeword.  We’ll just not do that again.”

“It wasn’t-” John puffed and shook her head.  “It wasn’t that.  I didn’t need you to stop that.  I just needed you to… slow down.”  She walked to the couch and made her way in front of the blank telly, making sure Sherlock could see her arms crossing.  “You can’t say stuff like that about Martin.”

“But it’s true!” Sherlock exploded and jumped to her feet, her furious eyes channeling down at her.  

“Sherlock-”

“You are blinded by your emotions.  Observe yourself as I do-”  She grit her teeth and hissed, “As any pedestrian off the street does.  Look at your relationship.”  She scoffed at the word itself.

John pulled herself to attention and hissed back.  “Why can’t you just be happy for me?  We have a good relationship!  You are trying to drive a wedge between me and him because you are jealous.  Because you don’t know what that’s like and you are too stupid to realize you won’t lose me to him!”

Sherlock leaned back, her face falling into a mask of emotionlessness.  “You certainly assume a lot, ma chérie.  But I suppose that’s what simpletons do.”  She sank back into the couch and returned to staring at nothing. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John bit out, but Sherlock would not respond.  “So now you’re not talking to me?  Great.  Really great, Sherlock.  Just amazing.”  She dove for her necklace and ripped the chains apart, threw them and knocked Sherlock in the forehead.  

Sherlock blindly reached out, dropped the necklace into her pocket, and slipped into her bedroom, slamming the door.  

“Good!”  John yelled after her.  “I hope you get some fucking sleep!”  She stomped up the stairs to her own bedroom, shaking her head.  Sherlock was the only one that she could yell at about sleep the same way she would tell someone to shove it up their arse.


	16. Petunia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M/F action below. If that makes you squirm in all the wrong ways, message me and I'll help you jump past it.

The next morning, John found a royal blue dress hanging on the back of her door.  She pulled it down the stairs with her.  

Sherlock was back in the living room, tapping her phone.  

“What’s this?” John asked. 

“Outfit,” she answered without looking up.  “You’re to wear it all day.  No necklace.  It doesn’t go with the neckline.”

John threw the dress over her arm.  “What makes you think I’ll do that?”

“It was part of the terms of your punishment.  You will do it.”  Sherlock looked up and cocked her head.  “Don’t tell me you’re ready to run away just because you got a little scared from yesterday’s scene.”

“I’m not scared, Sherlock.  I’m cross.” 

“Your safeword is ‘petunia’.  Text it if it becomes necessary.”

John crossed her arms.  “Why all the flowers?  Shouldn’t we be sticking to one word?  Isn’t that what people normally do?”

“Why all the questions?” Sherlock snapped and gestured to the bathroom.  “Put it on.”

A curling iron and a new bottle of hairspray sat on the sink.  On the floor were the strappy shoes John loathed to put back on, but apparently they matched the dress.  The dress was rather beautiful.  It was simple but the color was lovely and really brought out her eyes.  It accentuated what little curve she had around her waist without showing too much of her cleavage, not to mention she could bend in it.  It only hinted at the spider web scar over her shoulder.  Oh, and there were pockets!  Martin would definitely appreciate it on their lunch date, unlike the last time.

John supposed this was Sherlock’s apology then.  Sherlock was never very vocal about those. 

John strutted into the living room, not yet having done her hair or put on her shoes, saving it for after her morning routine and shower.  She threw her arms in the air and posed, thrusting out her hips and turning around.  “Well?”

Sherlock barely looked, her eyes flashing from her phone and back quicker than John could complete a turn.  “Nice.”

“Just nice?” John huffed.  “I look fit.”

Sherlock did not respond.  She pushed her phone away and pulled out her violin, plucking at the strings and ignoring her.  It was not until John had finished eating and headed to the bathroom before she really started to play.  The tune was low and sweet, soft and slow.  

No.  Her apologies never were very vocal. 

Martin was very appreciative of the dress.  “Look at you!”

John was nearly tempted to twirl around for him, but scrunched up her curls instead, slightly ruining the work of the hairspray.  “You think so?”

“God, yes.”  Martin practically growled, looking her up and down.  

Their lunch date was at a sushi place, small and dimly lit.  Even so, John could see the sparkle in Martin’s eyes and the way they kept flashing to the door.  

“Are you expecting someone else?” John joked. 

“Yeah,” Martin grunted, grabbed her by the waist and kissed her.  “My girlfriend.  Where exactly have you put her?”

John chuckled and swiped a finger under her lip, hopefully correcting any lipstick smears.  “I really look that good?”

“Very,” Martin nodded.  “In fact, would you like to get takeout instead?”

John looked at the nearest empty table, one filled in eyebrow raising.  “I thought you wanted to eat here?”

“I want to eat something,” Martin smirked, looking John up and down.  “But I think they’ll kick us out if I do that here.”

John’s face flushed red and she hit him with her purse.  “Martin.”

Martin sighed pitifully.  “You never want to.  Can’t you make an exception today?  You look fantastic.”

John pulled her arms back and adjusted the length of the form-fitted gown. 

Comments like those, as if it were a burden on her very being, made it difficult to say yes.  It was not that she  _ never _ wanted to.  He did not exactly ask that often either.

Still, it had been a while and she did look good.  And she had yet to really start her monthly, which was about the time she was usually riled up.  Hormones, tricky buggers, knew men would not want to do anything with blood in the way, so they always came out to play at the worst time.  

“It’s…”  She looked around to make sure no one could hear.  “I’ve only just...my...um…”

Martin squinted down at her for a solid thirty seconds before he gasped and said, “Oh.”  More disappointedly he sighed, “Oh.  Well.  I supposed we can ignore the eating and skip ahead?” he asked hopefully. 

John bit her lip.  She showered.  She was not disgusting.  He did not need to look so grossed out.  

Men. 

“Sure,” she chuckled and tossed her hair back.  “Let’s go to yours.”

They did not end up ordering any food as Martin hurried her out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk, his hand never leaving her waist. 

As soon as they reached the apartment he hurried to undo the zip and peel off the dress.  

John kissed him, backing her way towards the bedroom, trying to pep talk her body into another round of sex.  Her hormones were active, they were just distracted because Martin’s beard was growing in and it scraped and he had a propensity to slobber a bit.  She tried to move her hands over his head as they lay on the bed and change the angle but it got difficult when his hand started rubbing at her tits. 

Reaching for her shoes was an interesting endeavor as his mouth dropped to her neck.  They had a buckle and it was quite difficult to undo without seeing. 

“Leave them on,” he grunted, rubbing up against her. 

John froze.  The problem with leaving them on was that she would be in nothing but pants, specifically the blue shorts Sherlock had given her after her bath, and heels.  Which reminded her far too much of being in lingerie and heels while scrubbing the kitchen floor, while Sherlock pressed a button that made her arch her back and moan. 

Martin moaned into her ear, shoved off his outer shirt, and undid his trousers, kicking them off.  

She continued to unbuckle her shoes. 

This was really not the time to be thinking of Sherlock.  She needed to concentrate on relaxing.  She knew Martin’s version of foreplay, which meant it was going to hurt for a few minutes.  But she was a grown woman.  She knew exactly what she was getting into.

Martin started pulling at her pants and she lifted her hips, trying to get further up the bed.  She spun around to turn off the light and ended up frozen on her stomach, the chain to the lamp dangling between her fingers.  

_ Look at you.  I could take a picture. _

Bad thought.  Bad, bad thought.  

Martin crawled over her and flipped her around, mouthing at her neck and her ear, whimpering as he placed himself between her legs and started grinding.  Her clit at least had some contact, warming her up and making her insides twitch.  

The grinding and kissing and groping of boobs lasted for a few more minutes before he slathered himself with lube and poked at her entrance.  She breathed deep and closed her eyes, reminding herself to relax. 

It did not help much.  When he pushed inside, it still hurt.  Lube could only go so far.  

She hissed and pulled him close, pinching her eyes shut.  He moved slowly, carefully, not trying to hurt her.  

Finally, her body gave in enough for her to feel some pleasure and she angled her hips upwards, moving with his thrusts.  She moaned with more gusto than she actually felt, hoping Martin would either finish soon or actually take her.  If he grabbed her by the hips and truly started fucking her, she might be able to come. 

Martin was not like that though.  He was kind, and sweet, and gentle.  

And fast.

Martin finished a minute later- John tracked on the clock near his bed- and collapsed onto her, breathing hard.  She hugged him close and looked at the ceiling, trying to catch her own.  Her hair was crusting against her neck and her legs were at an odd angle, but it would be fine.  Martin always got up to use the bathroom immediately after sex. 

When Martin left, she threw her hands to her center.  Quickly, before he returned, she curled her middle finger inside her wet entrance and pressed her palm against her clit.  With her ears perked, listening for his return, she curved inside of herself and started to thrust.  

_ I would deduce you to be a slag. _

Pleasure rippled from her center and curled her body against the bedspread.  She whimpered softly and added a second finger, kicking her legs apart. 

_ He’s never heard you make these sounds. _

With her free hand she gripped the inside of her thigh and scraped nails over her hip bones, hissing at the sting.

_ Lovely whore. _

The bedframe started to squeak as she thrust her heels onto the mattress and tilted her body up, fucking her hips into her hand.

_ You’re only a whore for me _ .

As Sherlock’s voice rang in her mind, the pleasure spiralled out of control and she tipped into climax, her groan caught in her throat and her body collapsing silently onto the bed.  

Martin returned soon after and crawled in next to her, hugging her close.  He breathed deep against the back of her neck and chuckled, moving her hair from his face.  “You smell like honey.”

“Do I?” John asked, her heart pounding.  She thought she had scrubbed all the wax off in her shower.  

“I like it,” he said, nuzzling closer. 

“Yeah,” John mumbled.  “So do I.”

When Martin fell asleep, John crawled out of bed and slipped her clothes back on, leaving a note by the lamp to let him know she went home because she was not feeling well and that she would call later. 

Sherlock was in the kitchen when she returned, poking at something in a beaker.   

John dropped a wrapped box lunch in front of her and opened the fridge, searching for a beer. 

“What is this?”  Sherlock asked, her nose curling up at the sight of leafy greens and tomatoes. 

“It’s salad,” John said simply, finding a beer behind some fingers.  The top was still screwed on.  It would probably be fine.  “It’s your lunch.”

“John,” she sighed, “I can assure you, you do not need to lose weight.  You are within the perfectly acceptable range for a woman of your height.  I know you gained three pounds-”

John stopped sipping and looked down at her figure.  “I did?”

“But you will lose it without trying.”

“I’m not trying to lose weight.”

Sherlock pushed the salad towards her with the end of her pen.  “Then why are you trying to shove this drivel down my throat?”

“It’s a salad.  It’s good for you.”

“It’s disgusting!” Sherlock declared and pushed it directly to the edge of the table, threatening to toss it over.

John grabbed it with a sigh before she would need to clean up the mess and opened it up.  She grabbed a fork and pulled out the chair opposite. 

“You didn’t eat.  You had sex.  Your date went bad?”  Sherlock probably meant to make them all statements, but when it came to things like dating, she could never be fully sure of herself. 

“You could say that,” John mumbled around a disgusting bite of spinach.  It took her a solid minute to chew through the mulch and swallow before she could sigh and say, “We need to talk.”

“About?”

“We can’t…”  John took another swig of beer.   “We can’t do  _ this _ .”  She gestured to her dress and empty neck.  “Anymore.”

Sherlock pushed her elbows on the table and rested her head on the back of her bridged fingers.  “I could think of something else that is suitable.  But I thought Max-”

“Martin.”

“-liked your outfit.  You did have sex.  Bad sex, but still sex.”

“That’s-” John huffed a sigh.  “That’s exactly it.  You can’t be this involved in my sex life.  That’s why we need to stop.”

“Be more specific.”

“This!  This game.”  John hoped raising her voice would make Sherlock understand, but she simply stared.  “This thing we are doing.  It can’t- we can’t- go on.  With it.  It’s not fair.”

Sherlock continued not blinking, challenging John to go first.  John easily gave in and dropped her eyes to the salad, picking at the pieces of chicken. 

“You thought about me during sex,” Sherlock deduced aloud.

John shifted in her chair and threw down her fork.  “Sherlock-”

Sherlock rose and made her way around the table, inching up next to John’s chair.  “What did you think about and when did you think about it?”

“Sherlock!”  John shied away, scraping the chair along the floor. 

Sherlock leaned in and John got up, looking for a glass to pour her beer in.  

“I see,” Sherlock hummed.  “Interesting.  When you were masterbating because he could not bring you to climax, did you imagine it was my hand?”

“No!” John hurried to refute, forgetting why she had gotten up, feeling trapped as Sherlock cornered her against the sink. 

“What’s your safeword?”

“Petunia.”  John swallowed, refusing to turn around, focusing her attention on the sink nozzle.  “Why?”

“You wouldn’t picture my hands on you like that, would you?”  Sherlock closed in, her body curving gently against John’s back, just enough to make her aware.  

Suddenly, Sherlock’s hand was grazing her waist, slipping towards her hem.  

John gripped the counter.

Sherlock leaned in, squeezed her chest against John’s back, and let her voice trickle into her ear.  “You wouldn’t know how that feels.”

A lone finger dipped under the band of John’s dress and skimmed her thigh, moving back and forth, tickling.  Sparks zipped along her skin, as if that small amount of friction would be enough to catch her dress on fire.  The other hand closed over John’s other side, fingers gripping tight around hip bone.  

“The next time you are with him and need to think of me-”  Sherlock’s grip tightened as her finger trailed up, her nail scraping along smooth leg until it reached pants, snagging briefly, before hosting the dress midway up her stomach.  “-think of this.”

Sherlock thrust her palm against John’s abdomen and yanked her body sharply back, melding them together.  

John thought she should probably say something, but her head simply rolled back, her neck sliding sideways.  

Sherlock leaned down and touched her lips to the shell of her ear.  “Of my hand-”  Her fingers skimmed under the edges of the lace rim of the pants.  “Of my lips-”  She seized John’s earlobe between her lips and suckled the small earring clasped there.  John’s knees buckled.  Sherlock gripped tighter, holding her up.  “Of my fingers-” Sherlock’s fingers slowly dipped lower. 

John’s heart thumped.   Breathing failed.  She panted.  She trembled.  The countertop creaked under her white knuckles. Her mouth cracked open with a gasp as the pads of those fingers threaded into the first row of curls.  

“Sherlo-” John moaned.  Just as  _ Stayin’ Alive _ blasted through the room.

They sprung apart violently and dove towards the end of the table, staring at the caller ID on Sherlock’s phone. 

_ THE QUEEN _

They both looked at one another and then back at the phone.  Sherlock slowly flipped through the screen and answered, immediately putting it on speaker phone. 

“Hello?” Sherlock asked, as cool and collected as if she had just been watching telly or reading the newspaper. 

“Darling!” Moriarty called through the device, happy and light, like an old friend come for tea.  “It really has been too long!”


	17. Box

“What do you want?” John snapped and adjusted her dress, ignoring the twitches running up and down her leg.

“I’m sorry,” Moriarty said, sounding anything but.  “Was I interrupting?”

“No, no.”  Sherlock called, as polite as if they were at the watercooler.  “We’ll always make time for you.”

“As you should,” Moriarty growled, immediately spinning back to a happy tone.  “As will I.  Because as you can see- Oh.  You can’t see.  Silly me.  One moment.”  The screen lit up and Moriarty’s face came into view.  “There we are!”

Moriarty was as pale and gorgeous as Snow White, her lips a poison apple red and her hair falling in curls of raven black.  She was dressed in her usual ensemble, from what John could see of her, the top of a white button up blouse poking around her neck, smears of something that looked like ketchup on her collar, and two earbuds tangling around her neck, one placed in her ear.

“Oh, but that’s not fair,” Moriarty pouted, sticking out her bottom lip.  “I can’t see you!” 

Sherlock clicked a few more buttons and held the phone up, showing herself.  

“And where is our favorite doctor?  Johnny boy!” 

John shuffled into the camera shot.  “Still a girl.”

“Oh my, my.  Yes you are,” Moriarty yelled enthusiastically.  “That colour suits you.  You look good enough to eat.”  She paused, her eyes flickering.  “And I see Sherlock had the same idea.  I really was interrupting.”

John crossed her arms over the dipping neckline on her chest and Sherlock glared. 

“I must get myself a live in,” Moriarty drawled.  “You really need to let me borrow yours, Sherlock.”  She flashed her teeth.  “I promise not to bite off more than I can chew.”

“I can see you’ve already eaten,” John snapped, knowing it was not the best comeback, but Moriarty was just as neurotic about being clean as Sherlock.  “There’s ketchup on your shirt.”

“John,” Sherlock warned.  “That’s not ketchup.”

Moriarty burst out laughing.  “Oh you are so precious!  I’ll get you a collar with a little bell on it.  OH!”  She started jumping up and down.  “I’ll name you Princess!”

Sherlock’s grip on the phone tightened.  “What do you want?”

“I wanted to see,” Moriarty whispered, then yelled, “-what was TAKING SO LONG!”  Her eyes flickered back and forth, her mouth sliding into a greasy smile.  “Now I know.  Don’t you know toys are a reward, Sherly?”  She tisked and her finger swayed back and forth.  “No candy till you eat all your veggies.” 

John gritted her teeth.  “This is just a suggestion, but have you ever considered therapy?”

Moriarty’s eyes flashed and her smile was all teeth.  “I could always borrow yours.  Couldn’t I, Jooooaaaannnnn.”

It was odd enough to hear Moriarty calling her Joan but it was stranger to think Moriarty bothered to learn about Ella.  Surely Moriarty did not find her former appointments all that interesting.  John tucked her arms tighter around herself. 

“What’s in the box?” Sherlock demanded. 

“What’s in the box?”  Moriarty echoed and then started yelling.  “What’s in the box?!  What’s in the box?!”  She burst back into laughter, the camera shaking as she buckled over.  She snapped upright and breathed in deep, shaking her head.  “You don’t even know that yet?  How very disappointing Sherlock.  You are slipping.”

“You were withholding,” Sherlock growled.  “I only just received all the puzzle pieces.”

“Did you?” Moriarty batted her eyelashes and cocked her head to the side.  “You seem very sure.”

Sherlock’s fingers curled into a fist.  “I’ve linked your web together.  I’m only missing the fly.”

“Yes, yes.”  Moriarty waved her on, as childish and psychotic as ever.  “You found my video game.  It’s a lovely program.  So hard to reach the youths these days.”  She sighed loudly, smacked her lips and blew a raspberry.  “Your pet detective won’t be able to make arrests for very much longer.  There are other ways.  Other webs.  Other spiders.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose incrementally.  “Get along with other spiders, do you?”

“Not always.”  Moriarty smirked and leaned in so they could only see her lips, as if sharing a particularly juicy secret.  “I’ve been told I don’t work well with others.”  She pulled her face back and chuckled darkly, suddenly back to anger.  “But people just don’t follow directions.  They DON’T LISTEN!”

When the image stopped shaking from Moriarty’s outburst, the shot panned behind her and revealed a man.  He was naked and bloody, dangling from the ceiling of the fluorescent lit room by a network of complex chains.  A middle-aged man, chubby with a long beard. 

Ben Noles.

“Sherlock-” John started.

“I see.”

Moriarty was back in view a second later, sighing and pouting.  “That’s the problem with men.”  The camera moved as Moriarty walked closer to the bloodied man.  Noles’ audible wet panting suggested excruciating pain.  “If they don’t listen, all they’re good for is their swimmers.”

John hissed under her breath, “Isn’t he in prison?”

Moriarty spoke on, directing her attention at Noles.  “And if you don’t even have your swimmers, what is the point of keeping you around?”

A loud bang shot through the other side of the screen and Noles’ breathing instantly ceased.

“Oh, god,” John gasped and dove for her phone, dialling Lestrade out of view of the camera while trying to keep an eye on the psycho bitch.

“Well, Sherlock, my darling,” Moriarty cooed and brought the phone back up to her face.  She wiped blood away from her cheek and smiled.  “Do catch up.  You are above the men, are you not?” She froze and posed with the dead body, grabbed the man’s limp arm and used it to wave at them.   “Ciao darlings!” 

Before the call cut out, they could hear the upbeat lyrics of  _ You Should Be Dancing  _ sounding out from the headphones still dangling around her neck. 

“Come on, pick up,” John grunted 

Lestrade was not answering.

Sherlock slowly put the phone on the table and stared at it from above.  “Whatever was in the box was meant to be hers.  Another spider took it.  She wants us to help get it back for her.”

John squinted.  “She can’t get it on her own?”

“I’m sure she’s capable, but she has a time limit or she wouldn’t be rushing us along, bloodying her own hands.”  Sherlock’s voice dropped dramatically, her gaze intent on the images only she could see.  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all that.”

John stopped trying to call and gave Sherlock her full attention.  “But she won’t tell us what was in the box.”

“She knows we won’t find it if we know what it is.”  Sherlock smiled to herself.  “We won’t want to lead her to it.”

John’s eyes flickered to the ceiling and the corners of the room.  “She’s watching us.”

“Inevitably.”  Sherlock glanced her way.  “No need to worry.  I check the flat for bugs every time we return home.”  

John’s phone started buzzing in her hand.  She expected to see Lestrade’s number rolling across the screen, or even Moriarty for a follow up message, but it was worse than that.  

_ BIG BROTHER _

“No,” Sherlock hissed.  “If you answer that I swear I will-”

“Hello?” John answered gracefully. 

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft greeted.  “I understand you just had a rather enticing phone call.”

“You could say that,” John huffed.  “I tried to call Lestrade, is he-”

“I’ve already sent someone to check after him,” Mycroft reassured.  “Though I am sure he is fine.  We’ve tracked him to a local pub, trying to enjoy his night off.”

“Oh,” John sighed.  Lestrade really never did get a night off.  That divorce was soon coming.  “Would you like to speak with Sherlock?”

“I rather think this is a matter best spoken about in person.  Sherlock and yourself are both expected at my club within the quarter hour.  Your cab is waiting outside.”

Sherlock looked like she could murder with telepathy, but she did not say no.  

“We’ll be there.” 

The Diogenes Club was a strange, stuffy place with old-fashioned ideals.  John hated visiting.  It was one of the few places in the UK that actually refused women from entering and still enforced a rule of silence.  She loathed walking in at all and especially with Sherlock. 

“Where is the secretary?!” Sherlock bellowed upon entering, always loving to rile the crotchety old men with her ‘womanly ways’.  “I demand to be waited on this instant!  I’m a woman of providence and I do declare that you shall bring me to my brother this instant!”

An elder gentleman, only fit to be described as the cliche butler, grit his teeth and led the way. 

“Did you just say, ‘I do declare?’” John asked behind her hand, holding back a giggle. 

“They’re old, John,” Sherlock smiled back.  “They expect us to act a certain way and I refuse to disappoint.”

Mycroft was waiting for them behind his desk with a scowl.  “Must you do that every time?”

“I must,” Sherlock chirped happily and lounged in one of the chairs opposite Mycroft’s desk, flipping her feet on top of it.  

John smiled shortly and took the other chair.  

“So,” Mycroft started.  “Moriarty.  What-”

“What has the British government lost now?” Sherlock interrupted, loving the way her brother’s face turned pink.  “What is in the box?”

“Huh?” John tried not to make the sound aloud but it was too late.  Both Holmes spun towards her, pitying her monkey-like stupidity.  

“I assure you, sister mine,” Mycroft responded, his hands gripping the edge of his desk.  “We have lost nothing.” 

“You lost Ben Noles,” Sherlock countered.

“That was the prison system,” Mycroft argued. 

“Your system,” Sherlock argued back. 

“And we are questioning the guards responsible for his loss and they will be properly punished.”

“By putting them in a room with you?”  Sherlock smirked at John.  “Are we sure they deserve such a harsh punishment?  Is the Tower not a more humane option?” 

“Can we please-” Mycroft paused, calming himself to his usual diplomatic level.  “Return to the subject at hand.”

“She wants what is in the box.”  Sherlock snatched a metal knick-knack off Mycroft’s desk and started spinning it in her hands.  “Which means that you want it.  Which means you know what it is.”

“I do not keep track of every bobble and bit that goes missing in our country.”   Mycroft sighed as Sherlock started tossing what was probably a priceless thing in the air.  

“Who said it was from this country?” Sherlock countered, throwing the knick-knack at Mycroft and snapping to her feet, pacing from one end of the office to the other. 

“What do you mean?”  John asked.  Mycroft simply hummed and Sherlock threw her hands behind her back.  “Can someone fill me in please?  I feel like I’m missing things.”

Mycroft snorted and Sherlock sent him a glare.  Mycroft rolled his eyes and nodded, “Then at least cover it all.  No need for our slowest player to hold us back.” 

John thought she should take offense to that, but frankly she wanted to hear what the hell was going on. 

Just then, John’s phone rang.  “It’s Lestrade.”

“Answer,” Sherlock commanded.  “He’ll want to hear this too.”

“Hey, Greg,” John answered.

“John,” Lestrade greeted shortly.  “This better be worth it.  I’m bloody exhausted.”

“Did you hear about Ben Noles?”

“Yeah.  Mycroft’s goon filled me in on that.  Sherlock sent me the video she recorded.  I assume there’s more?”

“Yeah, I’ll put you on speaker.”

“Thanks, mate.”

John flipped the phone onto the table and put it on speaker.  

Sherlock smiled and started.  “Our prize is the lock box.  Whatever is in that box has grabbed the attention of one James Moriarty.  It is important, expensive, and deadly.”

Lestrade’s voice echoed from the mobile.  “What’s in the box?”

“No idea!” Sherlock replied happily.  

“What do we know?” Lestrade asked around a sigh. 

Sherlock nodded and leapt into her speech, continuing her pace as she presented the case. 

“Kristina Smackle.  A pet-loving, university student studying Literature.”  

“Kristina Smackle?”  John asked.  “You never mentioned her.”

“Shush, John.”  Sherlock muttered before jumping back in.  “One night, after pet-sitting for her mom’s friend, Smackle goes out to the pub and is approached by Ben Noles, seemingly out of nowhere.  Noles, for whatever reason, is exactly the type of man she is looking for and they hit it off.  They start dating.  They get closer.   Blah, blah, romance, blah, blah.’

“Why is this important?  Kristina Smackle is the niece of Stephanie Cornette, though her aunt is only a few years her elder.  Teen pregnancies, truly running rampant.  Now!  Cornette meets Gabby Miller at a yoga class run by the local church.  The two grow close.  Close enough that Cornette asks her niece to watch Miller’s dog when she and her son go away on holiday together.’

“Gabby Miller.  A single mother with a boy, age 14.  When her son goes to bed, she uses his video-game console to play a very boring and very illegal game named Skivvies and Lemons _.   _ Her job as an archeologist involves moving ancient artifacts from one country to another.  There is one thing she can do very well.”  Sherlock paused dramatically but when no one favoured a guess she said brightly, “Smuggling!  Gabby Miller smuggles items across the globe and uses the connections in the game to pass information and obtain her payment.’ 

“One night she receives instructions that lead her to be in the possession of a small lock box.  She doesn't know what is inside, but then again, she does not care as long as she is paid.  The instructions, provided by Moriarty, are to pass the item onto a man, codename  _ MasterOfAll4434 _ .  She begins communications with  _ Master _ and devises a plan.  If the man starts dating her friend’s niece, she can pass the lock box onto him, along with any other items that she may smuggle into the country in future, without suspicion.  They both agree.’

“However, what Miller does not expect is what happens when Ben Noles AKA  _ MasterOfAll4434  _ meets her friend, Stephanie Cornette.  She knew Noles was not one with the law, yet set her up with Smackle and ultimately introduced her friend to her rapist and killer.’  

“Noles takes an interest in Cornette right away.  She is young and small and shy.  She is lonely and timid and exactly his type.  Despite dating Smackle, he starts stalking Cornette, eventually raping her.  He uses his money acquired through various illegal activities and his access to the game to hire a professional to finish her off to keep her quiet.’ 

“That leaves the lock box in the Miller’s attic.  It still needs to be delivered to its buyer but Noles has been arrested thanks to us-” Sherlock nodded at John.  “Who is left to pick it up from Miller?”  

“Arnold Haywire,” John said, nodding along. 

Sherlock pointed in agreement enthusiastically.  “Exactly.  Hard to keep an expensive addiction to underage pornography when one is low on funds.  Moriarty knew this and takes advantage.  Through the video-game’s private chat, she offers him a large sum of money if he picks up a certain box.  Easy enough to make sure Haywire will stay quiet by threatening to expose him.  But Haywire is a simple pawn.  Who is to keep him to his word?  Enter stage left, a manipulating and elusive therapist, Doctor Frank Grant.’

“Simultaneously, Moriarty uses this therapist to make Chloe Bernet want to murder her husband by suggesting he was cheating on her.  She never actually caught him in the act.  Grant talks her through the steps of the crime, including how to steal a gun from the shop inventory.  Grant planned to show Bernet the porn when he needed her to kill Haywire, effectively tying up any loose ends for Moriarty.”

“And that’s why the couples therapist didn’t see the couple,” John nodded.  “He’s a fraud.”

“First, Haywire needed to get the lock box.  However, they underestimated Bernet’s temper and she attacked too soon, killing Haywire when he was only steps away from the prize.  She panics and leaves the body, not according to the therapist's instructions.  Moriarty’s people arrive but the box is already missing.” 

“Wait,” Lestrade interrupted.  “There’s a therapist telling his patients to kill people?”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said.  

“How?” Lestrade asked.  

“Easily enough,” Mycroft said, leaning towards the phone.  “People who go to therapy are weak and desperate for guidance.  He simply guides them as he sees fit.”

“Watch it,” John grumbled 

Sherlock went on.  “Grant is Moriarty’s string-puller.  He’s called out sick every day since John and I tried to pay him a visit.  Fake name, no paper trail, but I believe a real therapist.”

“You did what?!”  Lestrade yelled.  “Why didn’t you call first?!”

“Wait,” John held up a hand.  “The box was missing from the attic.  Chloe didn’t know about it.  So who has it now?  If not Moriarty.” 

Sherlock winked at her.  “That, my dear John, is the question.  Moriarty did not send her best to retrieve it in the first place.  She first sent unimportant loose ends that could easily be swept under the rug.  In fact, she planned to have them all killed in their own time.”

“Including Ben Noles?” John asked.  “Why did she wait longer than the others?  Why did she send us his balls?”

“When Moriarty kidnapped John in her car-”

“She did what?!” Lestrade yelled. 

“Hush,” Sherlock replied.  “When she kidnapped John she congratulated her on removing Noles from her sex club.  He was on her radar.  She believed he had information on who took her box.  She was trying to get him to talk.”  

“She was torturing him for information,” Lestrade said for clarification. 

“He had no information to give,” Sherlock said.  

“Alright,” Lestrade said.  “All that is great, but how do we know Moriarty’s not just messing with you and it’s a box full of rocks or licorice or something?”

“Moriarty would not be so pedestrian.” Sherlock scoffed, “Licorice.  She’s not a carnie.”

“So how do we find out what’s in the box?” John asked.  “It would have to be something small, right?  Like a flash drive or something?”

“Not a flash drive,” Mycroft said.  “No point in smuggling a flash drive.  There would be no reason to hide it.  Once could simply walk with it in their pocket.  Their greatest nuisance would be the metal detector.” 

“Alright,” Lestrade said, “Something small but not a flash drive.  That narrows it down to... anything.” 

“You are forgetting,” Sherlock said, “It’s something not only Moriarty is interested in.  Something another party was privy to.  Something Gabby Miller smuggled into the country.”

“Where did she last visit?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded at her, “Exactly.”

“So that’s why you agreed to meet here,” Mycroft sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers.  “I get to keep whatever is in the box.”

“Huh?” John dumbly asked again.  

Sherlock answered her grunt.  “Whatever country Miller visited last has had something important smuggled out of it.  Something their government will no doubt know about.  Mycroft is going to talk to that government for us.” 

“Naturally, my dear sister,” Mycroft smiled.  “You will owe me.”

“Please,” Sherlock scoffed.  “John.”

“Um, I guess you can hang up now, Greg,” John said awkwardly, picking her phone back up. 

“I’ll work on tracing the Miller family, I guess,” Lestrade said, clearly exhausted.  “And the murdering therapist.”

“Make Donovan do that,” Sherlock snapped.  “She has a job doesn’t she?  She must do something to earn a paycheck.”

Lestrade grunted.

“If she can’t track down a simple smuggler or runaway therapist, then she really is as awful as her choice in men,” Sherlock snapped.  

Lestrade chuckled and sighed, “Alright.  I’ll let you know.  Bye girls, Mycroft.”

John called, “Bye,” as Mycroft said, “Good day.”

When they were in the cab, John turned to Sherlock and asked, “What about the therapist?  Should we be doing something about him?”

“He’s not in his office and therefore not able to manipulate the weak minded into killing.  He can wait.”

“So, we’re focusing on the box.”

“No.  We’re focusing on what is _inside_ the box.  I have research to do.”

John nodded along, wondering how long it would take them to pull Miller’s travelling records and if they could contact her office or even Katrina to see if she remembered any recent trips.   They were going to be up late, there was no doubt in her mind.  She only hoped Sherlock had actually taken a nap at some point or she would start hallucinating soon.  

John checked her email, made some tea, and got to work. 

Though, she swore she had something else she was supposed to do.  She just could not remember what that was. 


	18. Please

John jumped at the buzzing mobile in her pocket and pulled it out to see her boyfriend’s caller ID.  She smacked her hand across her forehead and answered apologetically, “I forgot to call.”

Martin agreed curtly, “You did.”

“Sorry,” she hissed and slumped into her chair.  She looked at the bathroom door.  Sherlock was still showering so she had time to talk.  “I got distracted.”

“By Sherlock.”

“By Moriarty,” John corrected sharply.  “She called.”

Martin sighed loudly into the phone, something shuffling against the speaker.  “What did she have to say this time?”

“Nothing good.”  John rubbed at her eyes, trying to get the image of Noles swaying from chains out of her head.  It never worked.  Death always lingered longer than it was welcome.  “She killed someone else.  He was not a very nice man, but still.  Not to mention the mysterious box with a smuggled good worth killing for and a manipulating therapist composing murders.  It’s like Hannibal or something.”

There was a uncomfortable pregnant pause before Martin spoke.  “And now you need to stop her.”

John paused too, uncertain of Martin’s careful wording.  “That’s the plan.”

“Does it always need to be?” 

John’s brow pinched.  She wanted to ask what the bloody fuck that was supposed to mean but instead asked nicely, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, don’t you ever want a normal life?”  Martin slipped into his always calm ‘teacher’ voice.  It really just made him sound like a condescending arsehole.  “Where you can have a life and a family and not worry about mass murderers and reckless therapists? I mean, no offense love, but doesn’t Sherlock do most of the work anyway?”

John’s jaw started to ache and her voice was tiny.  “I help.”

“She did it before she met you and she can do it once you’re gone.  I know we’ve talked about getting married-”  Martin laughed without humor.  “Did you expect to keep living with Sherlock afterwards?  When we get married I want us to have a home, a family. A life together.”

John curled further into the chair.  “We will.”

“But not now,” Martin challenged.  “If you’re not ready for our relationship-”

“No.”  John hurried to add, “I am- I have been.  Please- I just... It’s Moriarty.  She’s evil.”

“And she won’t be the last evil person out there.”  Martin huffed.  “It’s not your job to save them all.  You’ve done your service for your country.  Why does it have to go on and cost you your one chance at happiness?  You are home.  The war is over.  You are not a soldier anymore.”  After another pause Martin sighed.  “Look, I got to go.  I’ll talk to you later.  I love you.”

“Love you too,” John mumbled back into the phone. 

Martin was undoubtedly the best thing that had ever happened to her.  Of course he made her happy.  But Martin was supposed to be different.  Part of the reason she loved him was his understanding in her cause. 

Yes, Sherlock was the one that did most of the work.  And it was unclear if John truly was picking up on her methods and subconsciously providing the correct hint at the exact moment it was needed, or if it was sheer dumb luck. 

Dumb luck did sound more like her. 

Anyone could run a blog. 

Not just anyone could run Sherlock.  She was a complicated beast to handle.  While she had lived by herself before, she made an absolute mess of things.  Drugs, depression, anorexia.  All sorts of demons intertwining and tangling with one brilliant, beautiful mind.  

If John moved out… when.  When John moved out, she would have to visit often.  Martin would understand the transition would be hard not only on Sherlock but on John as well.  

At least, she used to think Martin would understand. 

Then again, Martin still slipped up and accused Sherlock of being a psychopath more than once.  A freak.  Uncaring of how much it hurt John to hear him treat her best friend like that. Or how important the Work was to both of them.  

John would become Joan once again.  No more soldier.  A domesticated woman expected to go to work, come home to her husband and kids -if she could even have any.  She was pushing 40.  

No more cases.  No more fights.  No more adventures.  

Sherlock would hate it.  

No more Sherlock. 

That was what she wanted though.  It had to be.  No one was fucked up enough to want this life where half of the people you met were either already dead, about to die, murderers, robbers, rapists, or evil masterminds, and the other half were the people trying to put them away- so stressed beyond reason that they could snap any moment themselves.  Living between the lines of the law and nearing death as if the journey were a weekend retreat and adrenaline the champagne to be sipped by the beach.  

Then again, it took a certain kind of fucked up to be in a happy, committed relationship and still enjoy getting off on being your flatmate’s bitch.  Picturing her during sex.  Oh god, why did she have to picture Sherlock during sex?  Not to mention the touching that John was avoiding thinking about at all costs.  The hand gliding down her stomach, under lace, over-

“John!” Sherlock snapped her back to reality.  “The torch!” 

John blinked and shook her thoughts away.  She was standing in the middle of the flat, hours after the Martin phone call that she had been replaying over and over.  It was completely dark.  There had been a power outage on their block.  Mycroft had instantly assured them it had nothing to do with Moriarty and everything to do with the horrible weather.  

Lightning lit the room from time to time but John was the main source, flashing a torch at the wall of papers Sherlock was staring at.  She could not help but think that a desk could replace her at this point.  

“Sorry,” she mumbled and pointed the light back up.

Kristina Smackle refused to talk to anyone, or so said the doctors at her psychiatric center.  She was going through a difficult enough time without having to relive her mental downfall.  Besides, she was on so many drugs it would be difficult to get a clear thought out of her.  However, that would not deter Sherlock Holmes.   

A nurse’s outfit was laid out across John’s bed that afternoon and the two snuck into their first psych center to smuggle a mobile phone to a patient.  

“Why couldn’t I just dress as a doctor?  I already have that outfit.”

“Shh.”

Using the notorious Facebook page, Sherlock reached out to Smackle and after explaining how Miller betrayed and ultimately killed Smackle’s aunt, she was more than happy to share all the information she had.

Once they found out Gabby Miller had visited Italy around the time she would have smuggled in that box, Mycroft made a few calls.  It would take time.  For all they knew, the item in the box was not actually from Italy and linked to a chain of smugglers from any country at all.  

Sherlock tried to access Skivvies and Lemons again but the game had been dismantled.  Moriarty had made good on her promise.  

Sherlock was furious.  She hated not having all the parts but still needing to solve it.  She was trying to focus on the therapist instead, searching for a pattern in the names of his clients and the memory of his office.

The Yard had already visited the office but Grant had continued his leave of absence and no one knew how to contact him.  They had a description of his appearance -apparently he did not like to have his photo taken- but he could be literally any man in London.  It all circled back to his patients.  Sherlock had already linked three separate people to three separate crimes from the files she swiped off the receptionist’s computer.  

John’s eyes flickered over the names on the board, but nothing stuck out at her.  She shifted the torch and aimed it over Sherlock’s shoulder.  She would suggest lighting candles, but that thought was immediately derailed with the memory of hot wax sliding down her back. 

John cleared her throat and mumbled, “All these people.  They didn’t know they were reaching out to Moriarty, but they were.  They were desperate for help and she… she’s a monster.” 

“Not all,” Sherlock muttered back, never taking her eyes off the wall of names.  “Some of these people were simply put with Grant because of scheduling.  The man, however deceitful, was qualified to help.  It’s our job to sort out the helpless from the manipulated.”

“Your job,” John corrected with a tight smile.  She moved back a step to stretch the light out more and watch the rain smack against the window panes.  

Sherlock was silent a moment before adding, “You are right.”

John’s hand tightened and she chewed on her cheek, flinching as thunder cracked loudly overhead. 

“She is a monster,” Sherlock sighed.  “We are the monster slayers.  The warriors facing the wyrm with nothing but a sword and a shield.”

“And a torch,” John added wryly, shaking it a bit. 

Sherlock hummed.  “And the cocks.”

John giggled, “Yes, we mustn’t forget those.”

The room screamed with silence.

“So?”  Sherlock cleared her throat with a small cough.  “Are you going to tell me?”

John watched a woman in a white coat run down the sidewalk and flag a cab, her son sprinting beside her, both of them soaked through to the bone.  The cab pulled away without seeing them.  “Tell you, what?”

“What’s on your mind.”  Sherlock never looked up from the names on the pages in front of her.  “You’re thinking distractingly loud.” 

“I can-”

“Just tell me.”

John stepped back into her spot and squared up her shoulders.  There was a thin strip of exposed flesh on Sherlock’s neck, the part her bob arced over.  Visible muscles twitched, though she did not turn her head.

“We never finished our conversation from earlier.”  John said softly.  She did not need to explain.  

The ghost of those delicate hands crossed over her stomach.

Sherlock’s fingers tapped against her open dressing gown.

“You’ve lit no candles,” Sherlock deduced aloud. 

“No,” John agreed. 

Sherlock slowly spun around, her face expressionless, not even squinting at the bright light shining in her eyes.  “We must continue.”

John grit her teeth.  “We must stop.”

“We’ve barely scratched the surface of-”

John held up a hand.  “I don’t care what you have to say or whatever game you are trying to play or whatever experiment.  I’m telling you it is over.  Done.  No more.  I can’t do this.  It’s not working for me, Sherlock.  It’s not.  And-”

“It’s working for me,” Sherlock said simply.  The only movement coming from her was the hitch of her breath and the twitch of a challenging brow.  

John sneered.  “So sorry that I don’t want to be your plaything anymore.  That’s all I really am to you, isn’t it?  I mean, what am I even doing here?  I’m holding a light, for god’s sake.”  She threw the torch at the couch.  It crashed against the wall and bounced onto the cushion.  The beam threw new shadows over their faces.  “What is the point of me here?”

“You are needed here.”

“How?  I don’t help with the cases.”

“Of course you do, don’t be absurd.”

“No, Sherlock.  No, I don’t.  I’m there to be your muscles and that’s it.  You could hire people for that.  I’m not even a soldier anymore.  I’m not worth anything in these situations.  This entire case I’ve barely done a thing.  I didn’t even know about Kristina till yesterday.  I don’t even know how you found out about her!  I’ve been lost in this- this- this- mess.  And I’m too distracted by Martin to pay attention to what’s been going on.  You were right.  Relationships are a distraction.  But I’m not you.  I can’t not feel things or want things and I-”

“Is that what you think of me?  Of yourself?”  Sherlock’s fingers twitched but she stayed still.  “You think I’m an unfeeling puppeteer and you the gun I point at people?”

John’s mouth fell open and she blinked hard.  Her voice caught.  “I- I don’t think you need me anymore.”

Sherlock jerked back as if slapped.  “Of course I need you.  Is this what Miles-”

“Martin!  His name is bloody fucking Martin!  For god’s sake Sherlock.  Yes!  Yes, he is the reason why.  He needs me and I need him and-”

“No!  He doesn’t need all of you.  I’m sharing you.  Is that not good enough for him?”

“It’s not good enough for me either!”

“I’m not enough for you?”

“There are some things you can’t give me.”

“I believe we saw the other day that I can.”

John stepped back now, her face heating.  “Is that what that was?  You giving me an orgasm just to prove that I don’t need a boyfriend?  That I don’t need a life?”

Sherlock rolled her eye.  “You have a life.”

“What kind of life?  Huh?  What am I doing?  I’m a middle aged woman running around doing errands and pretending to be the hero.  That knight.  But I’m not the knight.  I’m the servant.  The god damn damsel.”

Sherlock shook her head vehemently, a lightning strike flashing in her glassy eyes.  “Don’t you ever compare yourself to a damsel.  You are not in distress, John.  You are an amazing warrior.  A soldier through and through.  You help me in more ways than you know.  Our role playing, our game, our scenes, you talking to me, doing things you never would allow yourself, are helping me in more ways than you can imagine.”

John swallowed thickly and threw up her hands, her body collapsing with her gust of incredulous breath.  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t know what it’s like to be me!”  Sherlock snapped.  “I know you can’t imagine it, but try.  If only for a moment.”  Her throat bobbed and her eyes pinched.  Thunder rolled overhead.  “My mind never shuts off.  I’m plagued by thoughts and data at every moment of every day.  I can’t close my eyes to it because it’s still there.  I can’t shut it out.  I can’t make it disappear.  I can’t close myself in an isolation tank because even when I’m in there, there are still things to think about.  To categorize.  I am swarmed by every detail in every direction every day and it drowns me.  I can’t afford to feel.  Anyone who felt would go insane with what I go through.  I am nothing more than a piece of technology.  Something that takes in data and spits out the answer to the problem.”

“You’re not-”

“I am.”  Her eyes flashed open, her gaze hard.  “I am as good as a robot in some god-awful science fiction novel.  Only, you corrupted me.  You showed me what it is like to be human again.  In a world where everything is flying past me, you slow it down.  You pick out the pieces that I need to see, shove them under my nose, and force me to look.  Without you, I know I would be dead.”  She gasped in a wet breath and charged on, “The drugs did one thing for me.  They made me forget what it was like to feel and to think.  They sent me to that isolation tank and cleared my processors.  Then you show up and I was no longer alone.  You surprised me, you derailed me, you made it all stop.  You.  You have the ability to make it all stop.”

The tears that Sherlock was trying so hard to hold back flooded over, but she made no move to wipe them away.  John stayed still and waited.

“When I focus on you, I see you and nothing else.  When you do as I say, that necklace wrapped around your neck while you pretend to be mine, I categorize only you.  It all goes away.  I know what you get out of it.  It’s the same.  You stop thinking.  You feel.  Well, congratulations.  You made me feel too.  Do not take that away from me.  Let me have it while I still can.”  She closed her eyes, fresh tears still bubbling up in the corners as she tilted her head towards the ceiling.  “Please.  Don’t take this away from me.”

John’s eyes burned and she rubbed at the corners, surprised to see her fingertips coming away wet.  She nodded mutely and sucked in a deep breath.  It took her a moment to realize Sherlock had not yet moved, unable to see her.  John moved quickly and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s stubborn frame holding her in an achingly tight embrace.

Sherlock twitched and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Hugging you.”

“Why?”

John smiled into the corner of Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezed tighter.  “Because you need it.”

“I don’t-”

“Endorphins, Sherlock.  You get them after several seconds of hugging.  Just hug me back, you twat.  You’ll see what I mean.”  

Enough time passed for two thunderclaps to sound before Sherlock slipped her hands out from John’s grasp and around her back.  She tucked her head against John’s shoulder and John pretended not to notice the way she reached her hand around to wipe at her eyes.  

John simply stayed and breathed in the scent of her emotional robotic knight.  Not thinking, just feeling. 


	19. Personal

“Answer the phone you evil hag!”

John jolted awake at the sound of Sherlock screaming at her mobile and chucking it across the room, directly over John’s head resting on the arm of the couch.  Luckily it crashed into the back cushions and landed on her chest instead of her face.  

“What the hell, Sherlock?” John tried to yell, but really, she had only just woken up.  On the sofa.  Again.  God, her back was going to be killing her for a year.

“Moriarty is refusing to answer me!” Sherlock continued to storm about, throwing herself around the room, violently waving her violin in every direction.  

“So?” John groaned.  “Why would you want her to answer you?”

“Because!” she yelled, as if that were answer enough.  Then she strummed her violin with enough venom to torture Moriarty from a distance and continued, “The Italians are refusing to admit anything was taken or smuggled in or out of their country.  They refuse to work with us unless it becomes a matter of national security.  Which is utter shit.”

“It’s Moriarty.” John heaved herself up.  “Isn’t that enough of a security threat?”

“Apparently not.”  Sherlock slumped into her chair and held her instrument to her face.  “They believe whatever was in the box is long gone and is no problem of theirs.  Moriarty is looking for it.  Therefore it is.  They’re just too stupid to realize.”

“So why are you texting her?”

“There are more people who know what is in that box than do,” she spat.  “Moriarty is one of them.”

“You’re asking her for the answer?”

Sherlock looked positively scathed with insult as she dropped her violin to her lap and turned her glare to John.  “How dare you?”  John held up her hands, but it was too late. “ _ Beg _ for the answer?  She is withholding information!  What do you suppose I texted her?  ‘Hey, James.  It’s Sherlock.  I’m stuck.  Please help me!’”

“Sorry.  Sorry.  Didn’t mean that.”  John rubbed at her aching eyes and shook her head.  “But if Moriarty isn’t the only one who knows, why can’t you ask someone else?”

“I’m not asking.  I’m collecting data.”  Sherlock slumped sideways in her chair and pulled at her hair.  “The only others that know what is in the box are possibly Gabby Miller-”

“MIA.”

“The person who took the box and whoever that person is working for.”

John opened her eyes and searched their wall of notes but it looked exactly the same as the night before.  “Still no clues there then?”

Sherlock conducted her thoughts at the wall with the tip of her bow.  “The alarm system had not been triggered.  The CCTV camera is malfunctioning.  Has been for some time.  Remember, we could not connect on our mobiles until we cleared the house?”

“They blocked the signal?”

“Indeed.  Whoever took the box was a professional.”

“Yeah, otherwise you would have noticed them at the crime scene.”

Sherlock froze, her eyes moving wildly, seeing things John could only fuzzily remember.  “I was wrong before.”

John found herself biting down on a sputtered laugh.  “I’m sorry, what?”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a small smile.  “It was not two men who moved Haywire’s body.  It was one.”

John gestured for her to continue.  “How do you know that?”

Sherlock jumped up and walked through the room as if it were the attic crime scene, pointing at the objects in her memory.  “There was a mark just outside the door.  A scratch of silver against the ground.”  She ducked to the ground and closely inspected the invisible mark.  “The width, hue, and placement all point towards a pair of heels.  I chalked it up to Miller.  Too small a shoe size for Bernet. But Miller is much more practical than that, isn’t she?  She’s an archaeologist.  She digs in the mud for a living.  Why would she wear heels up to her attic?”

“She wouldn’t?”

“Exactly!”  Sherlock jumped back to her feet and paced.  “So who does that leave?”

“Well, if we have a man picking up the box working for someone we don’t know, then it could be someone with them, I suppose.  Though I don’t know why you would need two people to pick up a box.  Unless she was lookout.  The other man was working for-”  John froze and blinked.  “Moriarty.  Why would she be there?”

Sherlock’s eyes shone with so much approval it made John’s face flush.  “That is the question.  What would be so important to James Moriarty that she would make the trip in person?” 

“Something  _ really _ important?”

Sherlock hummed and continued to stomp her well beaten path.  “Or something personal.”

“She’s Moriarty.  What the hell could be personal to her?”

“We all have a past, Dr. Watson.  Even she.”

“But we don’t know anything about her past.  Mycroft couldn’t even find anything.”  John promptly shut her mouth.  Of course, that was exactly why Sherlock texted her.  

John searched for Sherlock’s phone between the cushions and tossed it back to her.  Sherlock caught it with one hand easily and scowled at the blank screen.

To her reflection, she muttered, “Someone does.  Or they would not have taken the box.”

“What if they just took it because they knew she wanted it?”

“They made a point of taking it out from under her nose.  They knew its value.”  Sherlock squeezed the phone tightly and shoved it into her pocket.  “Moriarty must have let it slip.”

“Who would she tell a thing like that to?”

“Think, John.”  Sherlock looked back at the wall of clues, papers and strings cascading from ceiling to purple cock and back again.  “To whom do people tell their deepest darkest secrets?”

“I don’t know.”  John shrugged.  “Friends, family I suppose.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  You don’t go to your loved ones when you have fantasies about mass murders.”

“Alright, well Moriarty has to have someone as fucked up as she is.  Someone she can control.  An employee or whatever she calls them?”

“Someone she pays to have listen to her.”  Sherlock lifted her brows and waited for John to catch up.

“The therapist.”  John chuckled to herself.  “You think Moriarty does go to a shrink.”

“Of course not.  I think she made a mistake.  She is only human, after all.  Grant was tired of manipulating the masses.  He thought he would try his hand at something more challenging.”

John hummed.  “I thought she was a wyrm.”

“She’s both.”

It looked like the search for Grant became priority.  Terrifying to think someone with that power over people was on the run.  It would have taken someone with a great deal of intelligence, or an excess of dumb luck, to best Moriarty. 

In the middle of the afternoon, while composing a text to Lestrade, John’s phone pinged with a message from Martin. 

_ I have Mexican takeaway.  You want to come to mine? Xoxo _

“Shit,” John muttered aloud.  Sherlock looked at her quizzically.  “It’s Martin.  You know, my boyfriend.  He wants me to go to his for dinner.  I need to go.  I ran out on him and-”

“Invite him here.”

John froze midway to replying.  Her head snapped up.  “What?”

“You heard me.”  Sherlock rolled her eyes and pulled her laptop closer, refusing to look up from the screen.  “He’s a part of your life and you are a part of mine.  Therefore I should meet him.  Isn’t that what you always say?”

“Well… yes.  But, the case-”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”  Sherlock went back to typing.  

_ Sherlock invited you over to ours if you rather. - J _

It took twenty minutes for him to respond, all of which John spent wondering if he was still angry.  It felt like she was being blown off.

_ Sorry.  I actually have to cancel.  I just got a call from the school.  Emergency.   _

John sat back and reread the message, biting at her lip. 

_ What happened? -J _

It was insane to think he would invite her over just to cancel for no good reason.  He was not like that.  Tell that to the rock sitting in the middle of her stomach.  

_ One of the kids tried to off themselves in the chemistry lab.  I have to go in.  I’m so sorry.   _

Guilt immediately flushed the rock away and she was quick to reply.  

_ Good luck.  Let me know if I can do anything. -J _

_ Tell Sherlock thank you and I’ll be seeing her soon.  xo _

“He’s not coming,” John called to Sherlock.  “One of the students tried to kill himself in the school.”

Sherlock ignored her so John went back to writing to Lestrade.   She would search the newspapers once she was done and probably call it an early night.  They had been plotting a way to snag the therapist all day.  

John had wondered aloud why Moriarty would keep him alive if she knew she was betrayed.  Sherlock simply ignored her and went to her phone, tapping away. 


	20. Heliotrope

When it did actually come time for dinner, John had Mexican on the brain.  She left Sherlock to her moping and came back to the kitchen with bags of tacos and chips.  Who really wanted to live to 80 anyway?

John ran down the steps to Mrs. Hudson to drop off her loaded nachos -because everyone is allowed to indulge now and again- and back up again 

“Sherlock,” she called towards the bathroom since her royal princess was not pouting in the living room anymore.  “I hope you like tacos.  I got you-” she stopped when she saw the bag of food had moved back a few inches, a strip of black lace in its place.  “-beans.”

John reached out and ran her fingertips over the ruby heart, a smile crinkling the corner of her mouth.    

_ You have the ability to make it all stop. _

The lack of clues leading to the lock box and the Millers and Grant were all driving Sherlock mad.  John supposed this was a form of ‘please’ then.  Please make it stop. 

How could she deny a plea like that?  If she ever had the ability to do so before, it was gone once she saw Sherlock openly cry in front of her for the first time, that thin body shaking in her arms, likely to break at the slightest wrong move.  Who knew she could be glass?  Behind those layers of  steel, sarcasm, genius and rudeness was something so fragile.  John did not break down who Sherlock was to see her open up.  Sherlock did it willingly and trusted John to hold her in her arms without fear of judgement.  Allowed her to see this hidden side.  There was a bit of sentiment swirling at the center of her after all.  

John heard the bathroom door open.  Sherlock entered the hall but stopped before entering the kitchen. 

John slipped the necklace into the pocket of her jeans and turned to the tacos, whispering, “After dinner.”

There was a pause in which John would bet her extra hot, hot sauce that Sherlock smiled before the whining started. 

“John,” Sherlock moaned and flopped into her black leather chair.  “How can you possibly think of food right now?!  All that acid will no doubt make you bloated and slow.  You cannot ask me to join you in this descent towards laziness.  Really, you might as well give up now.”

John smiled.  “We have antacids.  Farting is perfectly natural.  And do you really want to fight about which one of us is lazy?  You were up playing a very pointless video-game for at least thirty hours.  Take-out Mexican is at least one step above that.  So.  Eat your taco.”

“Pointless?!  I sacrificed my valuable time ensuring every inch of that  _ pointless _ game was dissected for clues.  Must I remind you what  _ valuable  _ information we gained?!  How many cases I solved without having to lift more than my two thumbs?!”  She scoffed again, “Pointless.”

There was quite a bit more moaning but eventually Sherlock ate at least half of her taco and gulped down some actual, old fashioned, water.  

Every time silence fell between them, John seemed to focus on the bulge in her pocket, wondering exactly what Sherlock had in store for her once they were finished.  They had discussed exactly what had gone wrong the last time and Sherlock seemed to understand -even if she did not agree.  Whenever John safeworded, Sherlock always listened.  There was no reason to worry. 

Sherlock needed it.  

John wanted it. 

There.  No harm in admitting that.  John Watson wanted to do unusual things with her flatmate Sherlock Holmes.  That could be on their business card and no one would blink an eye.   

Well, Martin.  There was always Martin to worry about.  But he had agreed to this experiment.  Besides, Sherlock would get bored soon enough.  Hell, probably by next week she would find another project that would work just as well clearing her mind and things would go back to normal.  Sherlock might even be looking for something already, after John’s declaration of marriage.  It was the first time she had brought it up to her.  While the fallout was hard, Sherlock would pick herself back up and move on from all of it, including this thing they were doing.  

This D/s thing.  It was ridiculous to even think John would miss it.  She lived most her life without it -knowing of its existence and never daring to explore it.  She never really had the time.  She had to keep on the straight and narrow all through her life.  Harry was a mess as a teen and caused their parents enough grief.  Her coming out ended John’s fantasies of ever dating the “bad boy”.  Sure, there were parties and one or two sexual dalliances of the scandalous nature.  But that was life in college.  She had always dated nice boys who did nice things and would never, ever do anything but nice to their sex partner.  Girls were never a question because they could never be the answer.  This thing with Sherlock was a fluke.  A glitch in her system.  It would pass and they would move on.  

They had to.  

When John finished cleaning up, she decided to prepare herself to the fullest extent.  She called, “Be right back,” before running up the stairs to her room.  If things went as they had every time before, showing skin was probably going to happen.  

John grabbed a sports bra and boxers and threw them on instead of the bra and knickers she had been wearing.  It was a relief to take off that bra anyway.  The strap did not quite fit around the middle and the wire poked at her arms more time than any bra had the right to do.  

When she was back in her jeans and t-shirt she jogged down the stairs and dug into her pocket for the necklace.  Sherlock was waiting at the bottom of the steps for her, hands behind her back, suit jacket thrown off, her silken purple blouse rolled up to the elbows.  

John slowed the last few steps and stopped when they were at eye level. 

“What’s on for tonight then?” John asked, with what she hoped was a playful tone, but was sure she missed the mark. 

“Ropes,” Sherlock said with the slightest hint of a smirk. 

John’s eyes widened.  That immediately brought about images from her porn history.  Guys and gals tied to bed posts as their partner thrust into them with enough force to make the bed slam against the wall.  

“Oh,” John squeaked. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and a smile curved her pink lips upwards.  

Despite the flush creeping up her neck, John still managed to ask, “What’s my safeword?”

“Heliotrope.  Repeat it back to me.”

“Heliotrope, miss.”

“Good girl,” Sherlock murmured, her eyes dancing over John’s neck, down her collar bones, seeing through her clothes and around her waist and down her legs. 

Right, that was.... Right. 

John silently held out the necklace and turned so Sherlock could place it around her neck, the instructions coming forth as nimble fingers clicked the metal into place. 

“You are not to speak unless it is your safeword.  You will strip your outer layers and put your hair up.  Wait for me in the center of the room, ma chérie.”  Sherlock disappeared into her bedroom.

Furniture had been moved out of the way and a small fire was crackling, a welcome sight as John shed her shirt and jeans.  The nights were dropping well below comfortable to be in just a bra and boxers.  

John sunk to her knees facing the fire and breathed in deep.  Well, at least Sherlock knew enough to avoid the bedroom so soon after what happened last time.  And after John thought about her while masterbating.  And after that thing in the kitchen.  Oh god, she kept forgetting to forget about those things.  

A few shakes of the head sent those thoughts elsewhere and she breathed deep again, focusing on relaxing herself and staring into the embers, waiting and wondering what Sherlock could possibly do with ropes that did not involve sex. 

There were no chains hanging from the ceiling.  Hog tie her to the couch?  Did people hit each other with ropes?  Was that a thing?  Maybe it would be a roleplay thing.  John would be the southern belle tied to the train tracks while Sherlock twirled a fake mustache and cackled over he helplessness.  

Sherlock returned a moment later with coils of black and red ropes curled inside her fist, dangling from her side in dozens of loops. 

That was a lot of rope.  Enough for train tracks and then some.  

Sherlock dropped the pile behind John on the floor.  The smack of it made her jump a bit and her eyes flickered in Sherlock’s direction. 

Sherlock ignored her outright and set about closing the drapes, turning off the lights in all the rooms, and sliding the bolt in the door. 

John sighed in relief at the sound of metal clicking into place and closed her eyes for a moment, soaking in the darkness of the room around her and the heat of the fire in front of her.  

Yes, very relaxing. 

Until Sherlock clipped her heels over and blocked any warmth from those flames.  “Good girl, ma chérie.”

John smiled softly but kept her eyes on Sherlock’s delicate ankles, her hands flexing.

A rope suddenly swung in front of John’s face, a silk tie curling around its length.  

“I think it best you not see what I'm doing until I’m finished, don’t you?” Sherlock asked rhetorically, separating the silk and bending down as John closed her eyes. 

The tie was cool and velvety and tickled the back of her neck with a chill when she swayed her head.  

John felt more than heard the rope Sherlock dangled moving towards her skin.  It tickled over her shoulder and down her spine and around again, smooth and light.  John’s body moved with the gentle brushes, relaxing even more into herself rather than twitch away.  A content sigh left her lips and Sherlock hummed. 

Fingers circled each of her wrists and Sherlock pulled John’s arms behind her back, placing fingertips near opposite elbows.  She squeezed John’s hands and John held her arms square.  The hold pulled at her shoulders the slightest bit but it was not uncomfortable by any means.  Then the fingers were back, tracing up and down the entwined arms, up to shoulders where they splayed over bones, muscles, and scar tissue.  

Those deft hands went to tracing along the pattern the bullet left and John shuddered.  It always felt strange, the lack of feeling in some places and the sudden feeling in others.  Sherlock loved looking at her scar and this was not the first time she had touched, though it was the first time she had been so gentle about it. 

Suddenly, Sherlock was gone and the rope was back, the smooth outer surface sliding over and around shoulders, up and down her spine, until it snaked its way through her elbow and back.  Sherlock wound the rope around wrist and tied it off, winding the long length of it from one elbow to the next before tying it off again, her fingertips tracing the gaps between spirals, nails tickling at the places where rope met flesh. 

John squirmed and let her fingertips loosen, allowing the rope hold her arms for her.  If she truly tried, she could probably break out -the ropes were not cutting off circulation and she could move her fingers- but she felt secure.  It was no effort at all to let her arms relax.

Sherlock hummed and suddenly warm breath was puffing against John’s lower back as she reached around her waist and did some kind of complicated maneuver with the rope before bringing it back around.  John could not help flinching then.  Her stomach had always been sensitive, ticklish.  

Fingers and rope were lost twinging in and out of each other, every brush against bare skin making John tremble and then flush.  The air was filled with hot whimpers and nothing more, words too dangerous to be spoken aloud. 

Soon, every inch of her torso was covered in a complex pattern that spiralled in and around her arms, over her stomach, and down around her thighs and ankles.  Every move she made, every breath she took, pulled on one rope which pulled on another and another, scraping soft knots across her back and front, pulling lines along her torso and legs.  John’s mind was fuzzy.  She panted towards the fire, simply existing in her silken cocoon, knowing there was nowhere else rope could go, hugged from every corner of her body.  No where for her to go.

Except, this was Sherlock and there was no such thing as no or stop. 

Silently, Sherlock slipped another rope down John’s front, ducked a hand between her legs, and grabbed the ties that pulled her ankles together.  John bit her lip as Sherlock’s hands bumped between her calves and thighs, twisting knots into the rope before threading it through the ties curling around her hip.  

John hissed.  

Knots pressed against her in three very distinct spots.  One rested over her arsehole, one pushed against her entrance, and another scraped against her clit.  

Sherlock pulled the rope gently and John’s body tensed, stretching her towards the ceiling -but the ropes tying her legs together kept her from escaping the bulges pressing against her most sensitive spots.  John groaned as Sherlock continued to play with the line, weaving it up, between her breasts, and down her shoulder, tying it off around her arms, almost creating a complete circle.  

John’s breath hitched as Sherlock’s fingers pressed against her stomach once again, manicured nails teasing at the top of the boxers before pulling that rope tight again.

“Perfect,” Sherlock breathed across John’s open mouth.  

John swallowed loudly, her body bending forward, nearly caving into Sherlock.  She would have fallen completely if it were not for the knots shaking her back upright, a tremor running down her thighs and up her sides.

God, she could come just from that, rocking back and forth enough times.  

Closed off from the world behind locked doors, a silken blindfold, and an abundance of bindings, she tilted her body back and ground down into the knots, groaning aloud.  Her center pulsed and her already damp body felt slicker still.  

“Oh god-” she breathed before hissing her breath back in. 

There was a loud smack that echoed through the room as Sherlock slapped her hand over John’s mouth. 

“Did you say something?” Sherlock growled into her ear. 

John swallowed hard and shook her head back and forth.  The ropes along her front were straining as Sherlock pressed her back, pushing her farther and farther, testing how much pull the ropes had.  John tried to peek through the slits of her blindfold but she could only see the fuzzy outline of Sherlock’s fingers clenched across her cheeks. 

“Perhaps you need a reminder.”  Sherlock shoved John back and released her mouth. 

John only had a moment to gasp for air.  She nearly fell to her side and barley wobbled her weight back upright.  The moment she did she yelped aloud as the knots at her center pulled tight, shoving too hard into her clit.  

As her mouth was open, Sherlock grabbed her jaw and shoved a piece of rope between her teeth.  John’s tongue lashed out and slipped against the silk strands.  The sides of her mouth pulled as Sherlock yanked the rope in both directions, shoving her head back.  The choker tugged at her tendons and she panted through her nose.  

John’s body twitched and every rope pulled and slipped, rubbing against her- not a place on her body left untouched.  Every movement she made led to another and another until she was a writhing mess, sweating in front of the fire, nothing quite rubbing her the way she wanted.

Sherlock only chuckled.  

John whined and pinched her eyes tight.  Another wiggle of her arm lead to a rock which led to a shudder.  Every motion caused the floor to creak, the sound of which roared in her ears like a screaming taunt.  Look at the girl dance.  Isn’t it cute how she tries?  She was aching to move, to slip her fingers inside her body, to just come already.  This was absolute torture. 

Sherlock still said nothing.  Time ticked by horridly slow as John continued to rock, her center pulsing, her body crying for relief.  

“My lovely whore.  All mine,” Sherlock hummed and John keened.  “Do you want me to untie you?”

John’s head lolled to the side and she nodded slowly, sloppily, as if drunk. 

“But you look so beautiful,” Sherlock whispered.

The rope in her mouth pulled tight as Sherlock used it to pull her head upright, bending the lose ends up and holding them together on the top of her head.  Sherlock’s free hand trailed over ropes and knots and clothes, until she reached that one length of rope, the one that pulled her to the brink of madness.  With a harsh tug, Sherlock had John nearly off the floor.  She fell roughly into Sherlock’s chest, ropes pulling harshly from every uncomfortable angle.  

“Five more minutes,” Sherlock hummed against John’s temple, her hand gently petting at John’s shoulder.  “Can you do that for me, ma chérie?”

John nudged her head against Sherlock’s cheek and twitched again.  Slowly, she made herself nod. 

Sherlock’s lips rested on the top of her head in an almost kiss as she helped John to sit upright once again.  John sighed when the pressure released somewhat but her ease was fleeting.  Sherlock’s hand did not relent from their pets, travelling up and down and around every curve of rope she had set into place.  The movement was calm but the effect was anything but.  Every jerk of rope had John quivering until she was a hot, hopeless mess.  Her pants were slowly turning into pleas. 

“Plea- can’t- Sher- can’t-”  John tried to stop herself but she could not.  The rope mumbled it all together anyway. Her mouth was starting to dry, tasting of fabric.   

Sherlock’s hands stopped their ministrations and she leaned in to whisper.  “You’re almost done, ma chérie.  Do you need to safeword?”

It took a thick five seconds for John to contemplate that option.  She shook her head.  

Sherlock did not lean away.  Her breath puffed against John’s cheek as she writhed until there was only ten seconds left.  For four minutes fifty seconds, it was just the two of them twined together, in their own hazey world of heat and whispery breaths. 

“I’m going to ask you to do something,” Sherlock said slowly.  “I want you to count down from ten.  When you get to zero, I will remove the ropes.  Can you do that for me?”

John nodded quickly and squirmed.  Just the thought of being free and able to move her aching body sent another pulse of adrenaline into her.  

“Good girl,” Sherlock hummed and pulled the rope from her mouth.  

John smacked her lips together and tried to swallow.  

Sherlock pet the corners of her mouth and slid her hands to the choker around her neck, thumbing around the lace.  “Start.”

“Ten,” John gasped, her voice rough and cracking.  

Sherlock’s fingers dove down suddenly and pulled at the rope riding her center, sliding the knots along her folds and causing her to erupt in a moan, “Nine.”

Another pull of the rope had her almost falling to her side.  Only Sherlock’s other hand kept her upright.  

“Eight.” 

Another pull.  

“Seven.” 

Another. 

“Si-”

Sherlock pulled faster this time and John yelped, her thighs shaking.  

“Sherlo- I can’t- I”

“Yes, you can.  Six, John.”

John swallowed and nodded.  “Six.”  John’s lips trembled as she mumbled, “Five.”

The next pulls of the rope were faster than her count, sending her into a tizzy trying to keep upright without pulling the rope over herself double time.  “Four- Three- Two-”

The hand Sherlock used to keep her upright suddenly dropped to her thigh and pinched at her skin as she yanked one last time, simultaneous to John’s broken, “One.” 

Sherlock’s hands were everywhere.  The ropes slackened one by one and John’s breaths quickened, taking in as much air as she could.  When everything had been undone and the rope laid in a pile at her side, she still did not feel like she could move.  It was only as Sherlock came behind her to remove the blindfold that she collapsed on her bum and threw out her legs. 

Sherlock was right behind her, holding her upright with her chest and hands, rubbing out the sore spots and swiping away the beads of sweat that had risen.  John moaned and rocked back and forth, the memory of those knots still pulsing between her thighs. 

“Sherlock-” she gasped and spun around, effectively straddling her.  “Sherlock I need-”

Sherlock’s fingers trailed up her thigh fast.  Nails scraped up and in, hands grabbing at her hip bones.  “What do you need, John?”

John bit her lip and cried out, her chin dropping to her chest.  “I- I-”

Sherlock’s hands kept petting up and down her thigh, following the rocking of her hips.  

John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes and sucked in a harsh breath.  Sherlock looked positively wrecked.  Her breath was just as fast as John’s.  Her hair was flung across her brow, her pupils were blown wide, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. 

John shook her head.  What the hell was she doing? 

Sherlock’s hands squeezed her stomach and the spell was broken as John let out a sudden squeak from the jolt of tickled nerves and promptly fell onto her side where she sprawled out and gasped in a broken breath.

Sherlock’s hand smacked down, landing perfectly on her bum.  “Go on upstairs then.”  Sherlock leaned in and whispered, “You deserve it, my lovely whore.”

John slowly pushed to her feet and wobbly legs led her up the stairs and to her bed where she automatically collapsed.  Her boxers could not get off fast enough for her hand to dive beneath the fabric and start rubbing against her clit.  She moaned into her shoulder and kicked them off the bed.  Two fingers dove into her sex and she fucked into herself fast and hard, already pulsing and slick.  

It barely took thirty seconds with her thrusting into herself and Sherlock’s handprint still stinging across her arse, the sound of her voice whispering, ‘you deserve it, my lovely whore’, for her to cry out, louder than she ever intended, moaning out something that sounded like, “Shhi- Shh- llll- oh fuck!”

Panting for breath, she laid back in her covers, spooning them around her.  Thoughts were flitting away from her.  She knew they had something to do with ‘a bit not good’ and ‘what the fuck was that?’, but she was too tired to pay any attention to them.  She fell asleep, warm and completely spent. 

* * *

 

Tea was waiting for John when she woke up.  Still steaming, though it was next to her bed.  She sat up and gladly drank it down, only mildly affronted that she had absolutely nothing on her bottom half, knowing Sherlock must have walked into the room and seen whatever the cover could not hide.  

Next to the mug were some scones that she happily picked at as she read the small handwritten note propped against the lamp.  

_ You deserve happiness, ma chérie _


	21. Fiancè

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I haven't publicially thanks my goddess beta in a while, then I should. Jaharra is awesome! Her suggestiongs are really helping these final(ish) chapters improve. They were the ones that needed the most staring into submission (hence the lack of daily updates) and since life is a storm of meh, it really helps to have some backup. :D

Mid afternoon the next day, Sherlock’s phone buzzed.  She opened the message and smiled a wicked smile. 

“What is it?” John asked around her sandwich. “Lestrade?”

“No.  He already sent me all he has on Grant.”  She spun the phone around and placed it next to John’s plate. 

_ Dinner, dancing, and a show.  You bring yours, I’ll bring mine.  Sotheby’s at 7.  See you there.  xoxo _

“Is that Adler?” John asked.  

After all, it was only ever he who signed off with hugs and kisses after every text.  If anyone else tried to do that with Sherlock, she would tear apart every gramatical inch of every communication with the perpetrator until the primary school sentiment was lost.  

John’s question was immediately answered when her mobile pinged. 

_ Wear your gorgeous collar. _

“Moriarty,” John sighed aloud. 

“She’s agreed to meet us.”  Sherlock hid behind her phone and tapped away.  “There is a gallery up for auction tonight.  All works by Elaine Rookshire.”

“That name sounds familiar.”

Sherlock leaned back in her chair, staring at the screen.  “Gifted artist.  Died last year at the age of 92.  Not a murder, unfortunately.  Best known for her charcoal but has a great deal of work in oil paintings.  They are all equally horrible to look at.  As was she.  Promise to shoot me if I ever look this hideous.”  

“I can’t promise I won’t do it sooner.”  John got up to refill her water.  “Why would Moriarty care about an art auction?”  

“Perhaps she wants to redecorate her office.”

“She needs something to cover up those blood stains.” 

Sherlock reached across that table and snatched John’s sandwich, taking a large bite.  “You need to start getting ready.”

“Sherlock!”  John reached for her sandwich back.  “It’s barely two.  We have five hours.”

“Yes, but you take three just for your makeup and I need to shower as well.”  Sherlock walked straight into her room with the rest of John’s lunch and she probably was not even going to eat it. 

John grumbled, “You always fix it anyway.”

It was nearing the time when they should have been leaving and John was still staring at her box of purses, the ones she had left anyway.  One was a gift from her mom, which she would never, ever bring out around Sherlock.  There was the one she brought to work which was more of laptop bag than an actual purse.  The large burgundy purse she bought for a trip to the beach and maybe used twice since.  And one she used for casual outings at the pub or on a date.  Nothing was appropriate for a fancy art auction and she was willing to part with only one.  She picked up the burgundy bag only to have it immediatly slapped out of her hand. 

“Sherlock-” John groaned without turning around.  “First of all, we talked about the knocking.  Second, I am not going to meet Moriarty without a gun at my side.  My holster would be too showy even with a sweater and it would bulge out on my thigh.  We’d never get in.”

“What happened to the silver one?”  Sherlock dove into the box herself, tossing the purses behind her in her search.  “The one without a  strap.”

John caught a few of them and tossed them onto the bed.  “You made it fish food.”

“Oh.  Right.”  Sherlock then decided it would be alright to toss through her closet as well.  “What about the dark green one with the silver embellishments.”

“You tossed that one at a bird.  It’s on a roof somewhere.”  John pushed her away from the closet door and recovered all the sweaters from the floor.  

“The red one with the button on-”

“Skip.  Diving for evidence.”

“The purple one with the zipper.”

“Your mother’s birthday.  You forgot her present.”

“The other purple-”

“You gave it to the mugger so we could chase the killer.”

Sherlock scoffed and kicked the empty purse box.  “Well, you can’t bring any of these.”

John sighed and shoved everything in her hands onto the bed as well.  “Then we’ll have to stop at M and S.”

“Why ever would we stop there?”  Sherlock nose crinkled.  “They won’t have any purse that will match your outfit.”

“No but you know what they will have?”  John mouthed the words and pet a mocking circle around her belly button.   _ Bum Bag. _

“I warn you, Doctor Watson.”  Sherlock pushed in close enough for her breaths to puff across John’s nose and her chest to brush John’s arm.  “If you somehow manage to obtain such a monstrosity, it will end badly for all involved.”

John puffed her chest out and glared right back at her.  “If you send us off to face Moriarty without a gun, it will also end badly for all involved.  Maybe you can learn some self restraint and not throw my purses to every Tom, Dick, or Harry who happens to be chasing us.  Which, may I remind you, happens a lot.”

Sherlock continued to match her scowl for a silid thirty seconds before rolling her eyes and jumping down the stairs.  “Come!  We’ll see what we can find.”

Later, John was standing in front of a charcoal drawing in her new tight blue dress with her makeup and hair done and redone, a small black purse sitting on a silver chain hanging over her shoulder courtesy of Mrs. Hudson with the promise of a safe return, no matter how much Moriarty was asking for a purse to the knocker.  John sipped at her glass of champagne and did a sweep over her shoulder to place Sherlock.  Moriarty would be there any minute.  While none of the patrons attending looked like hired goons, there was nothing wrong with being cautious.  

“Joan,” a familiar voice called from behind. 

John spun around to find Martin standing in a tux, one hand in his pocket the other reaching out for her.  “Martin?”  She smiled and leaned forward to kiss him hello, completely ignoring the mass of worry and guilt that crept into her stomach.  “Oh my god.  Look at you.”

“It’s been a while since I wore one of these.”  He fidgeted with the collar and swept a hand just over his freshly parted hair.  “How do I look?” He did a spin and took a small bow. 

“Devastatingly handsome,” she giggled.  “Very Bond, James Bond.”  She looked behind her for Sherlock and immediately started another sweep as the panic crept forward.  “What are you doing here?”

Martin did not seem to notice the worry in her voice.  “I felt bad for cancelling yesterday so I swung by your flat.  Mrs. Hudson told me where you’d be.  I went home, changed, and thought I’d surprise you.”

John smiled wide but her eyes continued to dart around.  “That’s really sweet, love.  But it’s not a good time.  Moriarty is meeting us here.  You could be in danger if you stay.”

Martin chuckled.  “I should have known it was for a case.  You, all dolled up.”  He reached forward and traced John’s choker.  “I really like this necklace on you.”   He snorted and added teasingly, “Very kinky.”

She stepped back and smiled meekly.  “Thanks.”

He smiled and gestured to the works surrounding them.  “You never really were one for art.  I can’t imagine Sherlock is.”

John looked at the charcoal in front of her and tilted her head.  “Well, to be honest, and I know it’s been said before, but I can’t tell if this is upside down or not.”

Martin slipped his hand around her waist and squeezed.  “We’ll just have landscapes in our house, shall we?  Nothing abstract.”

“Sounds like a right good plan,” John smiled up at him, accepting another kiss.

“Speaking of our house-” Martin fidgeted with his collar once again.  “I wanted to apologize for the other day.”  He squeezed her hip and spun her around, a gentle hand tracing the curve of her exposed ear.  “I know you love me and I know you lead a very... interesting life.  And I know you help people.  You’re amazing.  I know you are a big girl and can balance out your life as you see fit.”

John smiled, taken aback.  It yet again showed her how wrong-footed she was, presuming Martin would ever hold a grudge.  It was not in his nature.  He really was the one that understand her relationship with Sherlock best.  He was more than right to his occasional frustrations.   She could and should try harder to put him first.  After all, he was  _ the one _ in more than one way.

“Thank you,” she said.  “That means a lot.”

“So-” Martin smiled nervously.  “I’ve actually been wanting to ask you something.  I know we’ve talked about it, but I thought I would make it official.  I know we haven’t been dating for a very long amount of time but-”  He fumbled for his pocket and pulled out a small suede box.  “I still need to ask.”

John gasped.  Her heart stuttered in her chest and her drink slowly slid between her fingers.  Martin shakily opened the box to reveal a small silver ring with a large shining diamond set directly in the center. 

“Joan Watson,” Martin smiled.  “It would bring me great pleasure if you would do me the honor of one day marrying me.”

John looked down at the ring, sparkling rainbow colors in the direct beams of light pointed at the artwork.  Her entire body froze.  Shocked did not begin to cover it.  This… they had talked about this before.  She was just screaming about it to Sherlock the day before.  Yet, actually staring at that tiny circle, now of all times, had all her words stuck in her head, her tongue too dry to move from the roof of her mouth.  

It was like she was a part of the auction.  A piece of art she was looking at from above.  See the perfect pairing.  Everything you’ve ever dreamed.  Right in front of your eyes.  But don’t touch.  

Martin piped up, “I know we are basically engaged already.  So I hope you don’t mind the ring-”

“No.” John slapped her hand over his.  “I love it.”

“So is that a yes then?” Martin asked with a smile.  “Because you did just say no.”

John nodded numbly and gripped her glass.  “Yes, that’s a yes.”

He got up, pulled the ring from the box and placed it on her finger, leaning in to kiss her sweetly.  She kissed him back on instinct, still too shocked to be able to function properly.  No one seemed to notice the proposal so she luckily had no witnesses to her clamming up and no obligatory clapping for the happy couple.  

Of course, she was with Sherlock who was unlike the masses and missed nothing.

“John,” Sherlock panted. 

John untangled herself from Martin and locked onto Sherlock’s panicked gaze in an instant.  “Is it Moriarty?”

Sherlock’s alarm quickly shed away like a second skin.  She planted a fake smile on her face and reached out her hand politely.  “I’m Sherlock.  Sherlock Holmes.  And you are?”

“Ah,” Martin grabbed her hand and shook.  “Ms. Holmes.  I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Sherlock,” John shook away her panic and planted on a smile, gesturing to Martin.  “This is Martin.  My boyfriend.”

“Fiancè,” he corrected with a squeeze around her newly jeweled finger. 

“Right,” John laughed once and pulled her hand up to show Sherlock the new ring. 

Sherlock’s eyes locked onto the diamond, the rest of her unmoving.  She seemed to stop breathing as her eyes darted from John’s face to the ring and back.  Just as statuesque as John had been moments ago.  

Sherlock suddenly sucked in a breath and turned her calculating gaze back to Martin, her brow squinted down.  

“Congratulations,” John hinted between a locked jaw.  “Is what I believe you’re looking for.”

“Congratulations,” Sherlock murmured. 

“Thank you, Ms. Holmes.”  Martin pulled John back against his body and rested his chin against her shoulder.  “That means a lot.” 

John pushed her stubborn bangs from her sticky forehead.  The heat from the stage lights was hot but being in Martin’s arms was sweltering.  She swept a finger under her eye and blinked rapidly.  At least her makeup was not yet running. 

“Please, call me Sherlock.”  Sherlock offered another tight smile and turned to the drawing in front of them, sipping on her own drink.  

This was about as good as John could have hoped for when the two finally met.  She only wished it had been before the proposal.  

Oh god, she was actually engaged.  

It changed nothing, really, but it still felt like a solid weight clinging around her finger and wrapping around her wrist.  She pulled her hand back up into the light and leaned forward.  Martin’s coat stuck to her skin, his gentle embrace keeping her from getting too far.  He planted a kiss on her shoulder and squeezed her once, tight.

Their tense silence broke when an announcer asked everyone to conviene in the next room so they could start the bidding.  

Sherlock glanced at her phone, swept her gaze around the room, and landed back on the two of them.  She looked right past John, too aim at Martin and asked, with what a passerby could interpret as sincerity, “Do you like art?”

He chuckled a little against John’s back.  “Not especially.”

John twisted in his arms.  “That’s not completely true.  I mean, yes there are landscapes, but he likes other art.”

“A different kind of art?” Sherlock asked. 

Martin straightened up and stepped to John’s side, keeping one arm around her waist.  “I suppose poetry is what Joan is talking about.”

Sherlock hummed.  “John has been rather susceptible to men who like poetry.”

“Hey,” John argued but Sherlock did not acknowledge her. 

“Has she now?” Martin teased, throwing her a smile. 

“Quite,” agreed Sherlock hurriedly.  “Do you have a favorite poem?”

Martin sucked in a breath and tilted his head.  After a moment, he adjusted his glasses and sighed.  “ _ Identity _ by A.R. Ammons has always been a favorite.”

John pat his arm to remind him to be patient.  She would explain later that Sherlock having any sort of conversation with him at all was a sign of her blessing.  

Sherlock’s eyes flickered towards the movement but she dove right back to the topic at hand.  “What line stands out to you most?”

“Sherlock,” John started.  “Do you really need to interrogate my boyfriend right now?”

“Fiancè,” Martin corrected again, simultaneous to Sherlock’s, “Fiancè.”  

“And yes,” Sherlock replied, sipping her drink.

Martin shoved a hand back in his pocket, but kept the other around John, keeping her close, rubbing his thumb over her hip.  The last time he had recited poetry to her, they had been lying on the couch together, talking about anything and everything they could think of, posed just like this with his thumb just there.  She smiled and relaxed into his grip.

Martin took a moment before reciting,  “The possible settings of a web are infinite.  How does the spider keep identity while creating the web in a particular place?  How and to what extent and by what modes of chemistry and control?”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched as Martin finished the verse.  

There was an alarmingly loud pause that followed, the two locked together in a silent stare off. 

Sherlock broke it gracefully.  “She knows you betrayed her.”

“Well,” Martin nodded.  “Yes.  It is why she sent me here, no doubt.”

John’s eyes flashed between the two of them, her brow furrowing, her heart jumping.  “Um, what?”  

She left off the bit where she felt like she was back in a room the with Holmeses -not Sherlock and her boyfriend- er- fiancè.  Did they know each other already?  Did Sherlock know about the proposal?  Was she in on it?

“John,” Sherlock called calmly, not taking her eyes off Martin.  “Please step away from him.”

“What?” John asked again, just as Martin’s grip started to pinch. 

“John, I asked nicely.”

“No.”  John shook her head and scoffed.  “What are you talking about?  I have no reason to step away from my boyfriend.”

“Fiancè,” Martin corrected again.  

Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted.  “He is not your fiancè, John.”

“I think he is,” John replied and tilted closer into Martin’s side.  “Sherlock, I thought we were past this.  I thought you understood this was going to happen.”

“No, John, he is not.”  She arched an eyebrow meaningfully.  “What he is, is a remarkable liar.”

“What?” John felt the need to ask for a third time.  

“Thank you,” Martin chuckled. 

John’s face fell and she shied away, repeating softly,  “What?”

“John, this is Frank-”

“Martin.”

“No, John.”  Sherlock flourished her free hand in Martin’s direction.  “This is Frank Grant.”

“What?  The therapist?”  John’s face crumpled and she looked to Sherlock.  Because it would always be Sherlock with the answers.  And these were not the answers.  This was ridiculous.  “No-”

“He lied not only to you but to Moriarty and he tried to lie to me.  And I must admit, you had me fooled for nearly five minutes.  Bravo for you.”

Martin’s pinching grip became bruising.  He shrugged and asked, “What gave me away, exactly?”

“Moriarty is never late.  She always gives her gifts exactly on time.”  Sherlock nodded to him, her eyes squinting.  “And really?  A poem about spiders?  At least make it a challenge.”

“Thought you would appreciate that.  She does have a thing for spiders.  Which makes me her fly, yes?  Is she hoping you’ll swat me with a newspaper then?”

John ripped herself away from Martin’s side and stumbled towards the painting, the sound of her heels echoing in the empty room.  “Would someone explain to me what is going on here?”

Martin reached a hand towards her.  “Joan-”

“Don’t!”  John slapped his hand back and jumped away from both of them.  “Don’t you touch me.”

Sherlock was the one to reach out now, though she made no move to touch.  “John, you need to listen to me.”

“Yes, Joan.”  Martin rolled his eyes, his pleasant demeanor slipping away like the rest of the world from under her feet.  Where there was once her calm, kind, silly, loving man, stood a smug, condescending, arse with nothing but petty annoyance and boredom in his eyes.  A fucking stranger.  “Listen to Sherlock.  Do as she says, just as you always do.  Be her good little bitch-”

“Shut up!” John snapped.  “Just shut up, right now or I swear I will-”

“What?  Hit me?  Shoot me?  Kill me?”  Martin chuckled and held a hand over his heart, easily returning to his usual self.  “I’m your fiancè.  You know Moriarty is just using me.”  His smirk fell and her Martin was back, eyes pinching and glossy.  “She’s making me say these things.  She did it to you.  At the pool.  She’s making me, Joan.  Please.  Please, I don’t want to hurt you.  I love you.”

“No.”  John shook her head, refusing to feed the heat burning in her eyes, furiously blinking the spots of red away.  “No, no, no.  This isn’t happening.”

Sherlock slipped forward, her body blocking Martin, her eyes locking on John’s.  She spoke slowly and carefully, “I need you to listen, Doctor Watson.  An enemy has infiltrated our ranks.”

John laughed, too loud and without humour.  “Him?  He’s the gift?”

“Yes, him.”  Sherlock took a step closer.  “Moriarty sent him to us.  He is the therapist.  He is Frank Grant.  He has been lying to you.”

“How?”  John’s voice caught in her throat.  “It- It’s been months.  How?!”

“He works for Moriarty but also for himself.”  Sherlock took another step, blocking John’s attempt to try tear open the cracks in his lying face with her scowl.  “He was hired by Moriarty to make you fall in love with him, to keep tabs on you and me and to manipulate you away from me.”

“Not to mention the easy access to your apartment,” Martin added with a smile, as casual as if he were talking about his latest class lecture.  

“Shut up!”  John screamed and threw her glass on the ground.  Champagne splattered across the shining wooden floor, glass crashing into the puddles.  

“Don’t know why you’re getting so angry, Joan,” he called to her.  “It obviously wasn’t as easy of access as anticipated.”

John dove for her purse with shaking fingers.  It took her two tries to pull out her gun.  Once she had the solid weight of it in her hands, the world became crystal clear.  No more shaking.  No more freezing.  There was only her, her gun, and her target.  She aimed it directly for Martin’s head and clicked the safety off.  

Sherlock slipped into her line of sight, one hand hovering in the space above John’s shoulder.  “He tried to play Moriarty.  He lied to her and tried to take what was in that lock box.”  Her hand landed on John’s shoulder and she squeezed.  “He knows what we are after.”

“She is a hard boss to have,” Martin commented and walked down the hall of paintings, towards the back corner of the room where John knew there was an exit.  Lestrade was on the street waiting, but he would not know who to look for.  “It’s always nice to have a backup plan.”

“You thought you would use the contents of the box as a means of escape.”  Sherlock filled in the blanks.  She turned, her body curling around John, still blocking her from Martin, both watching him inch away.  “It may have worked if it weren’t for Bernet killing Haywire too soon.”

“Dumb minger,” Martin mumbled.  “Women really don’t have a handle on their emotions.  Not like men.  It’s biological really.  Luckily, women are easily persuaded, aren’t they Joan?”

John’s fists clenched around her gun, still keeping aim over Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock remained a solid wall.  “When Moriarty found out it was not Bernet who took the box, she did not suspect it to be you.”

“I wasn’t supposed to know about it.  But I have my ways.  My people.”

“Was the man who took it from the Miller house another one of your patients?”

Martin shook his head and tisked, as if scolding a child.  “The idiot sold it on me.  I spent weeks tracking it down.”

“Barcelona?”

“Thereabouts.”

“I assume he’s been taken care of?”

“Killed himself.  Tragic.  In a chemistry lab, of all places.”

John’s breath left her body in a whimper.  

_ One of the kids tried to off himself in the chemistry lab. _

Bull shit.  Bull fucking shit.

Sherlock sensed John’s finger tightening around the trigger and curled a hand behind herself, pushing her palm against John’s stomach, stilling her.  

What the hell were those two doing?  Both of them were obviously stalling.  But for what purpose?

Sherlock tracked Martin’s move to the next row of works and said, “Once I told her what her pet therapist did, she sent you here to do this to John.”

“Yes.”  Martin leaned around the artwork and made sure to smile at John teasingly.  “Sooner than expected.  But what the lady wants, she takes.”

“But that’s not the only reason.”  Sherlock stepped to block him from view again.  “She’ll only kill you if you bring it to her.  If you try to run, she will hunt you down.  You have no option but to come with us.”

He scoffed.  “Do you really believe I have not already thought of that?  That she has not?  It means too much to her.  But who says I’m stupid enough to be the one to give it to her?  After all, you’re here.  And there is always another option.”

Martin bolted out the emergency exit doors, a bullet soaring over his shoulder.  

John sprinted after him.  

Sherlock ran in the opposite direction.  

“Sherlock!”  John stumbled to a stop as Martin disappeared out the door.  She turned around and whipped out her phone, dialing Lestrade.

He answered right away, “John-” 

“Man in a tux.  Brown hair, six foot, beard, running.  Get him.”

“On it.”

Sherlock snatched one of the smallest paintings off the display and ran back to the exit door.  

Sirens instantly started to wail.  

“Come on John!”

“Are you stealing?!” John ran after her, dodging one of the security guards as they leapt for the door.  She had to hit the next in the stomach with her weak arm -refusing to hit an innocent with a loaded gun- and sent him to the ground with a good push.

“It’s for a good cause!” Sherlock tossed her wine at another guard, threw John out the door, and ran after her, both of them cursing their footwear aloud until they were far away from the building and roaming the streets for a cab.  It took three passing them before John realized she still had her gun out.  She put it back in Mrs. Hudson’s purse thanking her lucky stars the strap prevented it from falling off during the chase.  

“That’s it,” John panted.  “No more heels.  I’m wearing trainers with everything.”

“That,” Sherlock ripped one of her shoes off, frowning at the cracked heel.  “Is a brilliant idea.”

“Trainers and a bum bags.  We’ll get cargo shorts and polo shirts and visors and no one will ever want to talk to us again.”

Sherlock chuckled.  “That sounds even better.” 

“What is it then?” John asked, pointing to the painting.  It looked like nothing more than colors to her.  Maybe a flower if she squinted just right.  

Sherlock held it up into the street light and smirked. “No idea.” 

The entire ride home John could not stop looking out the window, searching the faces of everyone in the crowd.  None of them were who she was looking for. 

_ Got away. -L _


	22. Protea

“I called the school.”  John announced to the room.  Sherlock was upside-down on the couch in her Memory Palace, still wearing her dress for some reason.  She was not one with the outside world and therefore probably not paying attention but John needed to speak to someone or she would go insane.  Billy The Skull would do.  “Martin Morstan does work as a science teacher.  So I checked on the website.  He’s a completely different man.  They look a bit the same but- just.  Not.”

John looked into the empty fireplace where she had tossed her generic engagement ring.  She said it would be a good idea to sell it for some extra cash, but threw it into the fire instead.  Unfortunately, it did not melt like she wanted it to.  It simply changed colors. 

Once Sherlock had another experiment to scare her brother away, maybe involving tubs of acid, she would throw it in there.  For now, it would stay in the ashes.  

“The kid…”  She had to clear her throat and shake her head.  Her fist clenched.  The wall was dangerously close to getting a hole punched through it.  “The kid that killed himself in the chemistry lab was 19.  He was 19 fucking years old.  That bastard manipulated that  _ child _ into killing himself.”  She slapped the arm of her chair instead.  Once was not enough.  She slapped again and again until her palm stung.  “He killed so many fucking people.  He fucking manipulated me.  And now he’s fucking run off.  That fucker!” 

Suddenly, John was standing and her tea was across the room.  One of their many cheap mugs was splintered across the floor, tea dripping off the wall.  She could kind of see why Sherlock liked doing that. 

Martin Morstan aka Frank Grant had disappeared almost instantly from everyone’s radar, including Mycroft.  He was a professional after all.

“All of that shit, for what?” She turned and kicked her chair, then gestured at the mantle where a small painting was propped up, evidence papers sprouting behind it.  “A bloody painting.  By some lady who died a year ago.”

“Not just some lady,” Sherlock interrupted. 

John spun around wildly and snapped, “What?”

Sherlock had her eyes closed, still as a statue.  “Elaine Rookshire was not her real name.”

“Fantastic,” John sighed and sank back into her chair, all of her energy suddenly gone.  “Who the hell was she then?”

“Adela Gunilla.  Daughter to Hertha Gunilla, lover of Amata Massimo.”

John slumped back into her chair and glared at the ceiling.  She really needed a fucking drink.  It had been forever since she went to the pub for herself.  “So?”

Sherlock spun around and sat up like a normal person as her pink face drained and the blood returned on its normal distribution path.  “Massimo was an Italian spy during World War One and Two.  She had a Boston Marriage with Gunilla the elder.”

“A Boston Marriage?”

“Lesbians, John.  Though not all of those in a Boston Marriage were as such.”

John simply nodded along.  “Oh, well, that’s very helpful then.”

“Massimo would write back to Hertha Gunilla, so that she could report to the leaders of Italy.  It is specifically noted that she worked to rid Germany of the Nazi party by going undercover dressed as a male.”

“That’s… intense.”

“Yes, but she had a good cause.  They would have killed her had they learned of her relationship with Gunilla and their daughter too.”  Sherlock lifted herself up from the sofa and zoned in on the painting.

John refused to look away from the ceiling.  “Did they kill her?”

“She lived five years beyond the wars before dying of lung disease.” 

John sighed.  “And how does this relate to the case?”

“No idea.  But it is important.  Adela Gunilla was Elaine Rookshire.  There has to be a reason Moriarty is interested in this single painting.”

“It is rather small,” John said, tilting her head to the mantle where it sat no bigger than 10cm on each side out of its frame.  “To be honest, I expected there to be a cock on it.”

“I still don’t understand why you won’t let me keep it,” Sherlock sulked. 

“Because it’s priceless artwork that we have stolen.  You know you don’t have the equipment to analyze it here.”

“But-”

“Or at the hospital.”  John closed her eyes and tilted her head back again.  “Just let Lestrade take care of it.  He won’t let her take it.” 

“He’s an idiot.”

John’s fists clenched.  “Everyone’s an idiot.”

“Martin-”

“Frank.”

“-was a master manipulator with multiple degrees in psychology.  You thought you were going to marry him.  You loved him, or what you thought he was.  Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.  And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

John squeezed her eyes tighter and grit her teeth.  “You know Shakespeare?”

“I’m English.  Of course I know Shakespeare.” 

“Of course you bloody do.”  John swallowed thickly and cleared her throat.  She squeezed the arms of her chair and dropped her head.  “I should have known better.  I should have seen something was wrong.  I should have made you meet him sooner.  After what happened with Molly I should have-”

“Let me make something very clear to you, Doctor Watson.”  Sherlock leaned over John’s chair, hands gripping the tops of the back, blocking her body in.  “You may be an idiot, but you are not an idiot.”

“Sherlock-”

Sherlock grabbed her shoulders and shook.  “It was his sole job and purpose to get you to feel this exact way.  To make you question yourself at every turn.  There is no such thing as should have.  Do not let him win, soldier.”

John’s head snapped back up, nearly colliding with Sherlock’s chin.  “Did you just call me soldier?”

“You bet your arse, Captain.”

John burst out in a pathetic laugh that quickly tapered off into silence.

Sherlock knelt between her legs in front of her, her hands falling to John’s wrists.  “What would you like your safeword to be?”

John pulled her hands into her lap, but Sherlock would not let go.  “I can’t do that now.”

“Yes you can.”

The last time they had done it, John had been in almost the exact same spot.  Her body bound and writhing.  Focused only on Sherlock’s next move and the pleasure squeezing her center.  The desperation for release as soon as she was free, crumpled in Sherlock's arms.  

The guilt followed soon after.  Martin.  

All of it came back to that fucker.  She had no reason to still feel guilty about what happened.  Martin had been lying to her all along.  He had no right over her emotions any longer.  Yet he was still there.  Would always be there.  Anyone new she met, anyone who talked her up at the pub, any date she managed scrape together, she would always wonder if they were doing the same thing he did.  Lying, manipulating, scamming.  Martin would be controlling her life forever. 

John ripped her wrists from Sherlock’s grasp and clutched at her head.  She quickly raked her fingers through her hair and threw her composure back together, sitting up ramrod straight with a fake but pleasant smile on her face.  “I don’t want to.”

Sherlock stayed seated.  Slowly, she reached one hand up and curled her fingers under John’s bangs.  She swept them to the side and let her fingers trail down cheek and jaw.  “Your thoughts are spiralling into dark, treacherous waters.  I’ll pull you back to shore, if only for a moment.”

“Did you just call me a boat?”

“I know how it feels.  Let me help you.  Please.”  

John’s eyes pinched.  She found it impossible to pull her head away.  It tingled wherever Sherlock’s fingers touched.  A touch that brought with it the memory of her on her knees in a stupid sex club, Sherlock brushing away her hair, rescuing her from the man grabbing her from behind, and the tender way she smiled as they finished their dance.

John nodded reluctantly.

“Good.” Sherlock handed her the necklace from seemingly nowhere.  The necklace that Sherlock weaved together from suede.  That necklace had been on John’s nightstand.  “Go upstairs and change into your military outfit.  Dog tags are optional, though I suggest you dig them out.  Your safeword will be chosen by the time you come down the stairs.  Go on.”

John took her time changing from a sports bra and sweatpants into her uniform, carefully tying her hair in a bun along her neck and slipping her dog tags between her coat and tank top.  Nothing was quite to regulations standards and the choker would never pass, but it would do.  

Sherlock was waiting, the middle of the living room cleared away in haste, everything pushed to the side.  She was huffing a bit from her hussle but pretended she was fine as she sat in her chair, now pushed directly in front of the cold fireplace. 

“Good,” Sherlock nodded.  “Your safeword is protea.  Say it for me.”

“Protea,” John repeated back robotically.  At some point she would need to look these words up.  

“Fantastic.  No more talking unless instructed.  Moving on.”  She pointed in front of her.  “Stay on your feet and stand at attention until I tell you otherwise.”

John did as she was asked, pulling her shoulders back and squaring herself up in front of Sherlock.  Her gaze landed on the painting and she found herself getting lost in the colors all swirling together.  It still looked like nothing.  

“Jacket off,” Sherlock instructed and John’s fingers instantly dropped to her buttons, undoing and shedding the outermost layer so she was only in her tank and trousers.  “Drop and give me twenty.”

John’s eyebrows twitched.  Was she serious?

“You heard me,” Sherlock hissed.  “Make it forty.  Count out loud.  Pushups.  Go.”

John dropped to her arms and toes and started, counting off every time she dropped.  

“One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five-”

It had regrettably been awhile since she had done pushups and her muscles were uncomfortable by the time she hit twenty.  At thirty they started shaking from lack of use and she cursed internally.  

“Thirty-two.  Thir-ty-thre-three-”

This was pathetic.  Why was she even being made to do this?  

Martin.  Right. 

“Thirty-seven.  Thirty-eight.-”  She was starting to sweat a bit, her panting making it harder to understand.  She needed to start working out daily again.  Jogging just was not going to cut it anymore.  “Fourty.”

John dropped to the floor and pushed into a seated position, tempted to pull her choker away from her sticky neck. 

“On your feet,” Sherlock commanded.  “Jumping jacks.  Fifty.  Go.”

John sucked in a breath and made it to her feet, jumping up and down right away, hoping Mrs. Hudson would not be bothered by the noise. . . or misinterpret it like she did when Sherlock rented that mini trampoline.  

“One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five.  Six-”

Fifty jumping jacks would be easy enough.  Her heart was pounding and wisps of her hair were sticking across her temple.  Each time she jumped her dog tags clanged together, reminding her to count aloud.  That was all she needed to focus on.  Jump, count, jump, count, jump, count.

“Forty-seven.  Forty-eight.  Forty-nine.  Fifty.” 

“Another fifty,” Sherlock commanded, her position never changing, her eyes locked.  “Go.”

“One. Two.  Three.  Four.  Five-”

The second fifty were harder but her body was pressed into shots of adrenaline and the high hit her around jump forty five.  A smile came across her face without her meaning for it to do so, but Sherlock did not say anything. 

“Another fifty,” Sherlock said, a small smirk crawling up the corner of her mouth.  “Go.”

“One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five.  Six.  Seven-”

By the time she reached the final fifty, sweat was rolling down her back in beads and her hair was coming loose from its bun, her hairband dragging towards her neck. 

“Sit-ups,” Sherlock commanded.  “Twenty.  Then one hundred crunches.  Twenty more sit ups.  Then one hundred crunches on each side.  Count.  Go.”

John’s eyes bulged but she dropped to the ground.  This would have been nothing for her a few years ago with drill sergeants screaming from above, pushing her to do it faster, do it better.  She had Sherlock now.  

“Thirty-one.  Thirty uh.”  WIthout the clang of the metal around her neck, it was a bit more difficult to keep track.  “Thirty-”

“Start over,” Sherlock said cooly, unable to mask all of her amusement.  

John just barely managed to keep the ‘For fuck’s sake’ from coming out of her mouth as she sucked in a breath and pushed herself to start over. 

“One.  Two.  Three-”

Her side was already starting to tug.  She would be feeling these for days, that was for sure.  That would be something to deal with later though.  No reason to distract herself from her count by a wee bit of pain or Sherlock would probably make her restart from the pushups.  She simply sweat and breathed and worked until she reached that final count for her final set of one hundred.  

“On your feet.  Twenty squats.”

John hopped lightly to her feet and spread her legs, dipping into her thighs, breathing deeply.  “One.  Two.  Three.  Four-”  

She froze when her phone started ringing. 

_ You don’t know what it’s like, baby.   _

That was Martin’s ringtone.  

_ You don’t know what it’s like.   _

John’s entire body dropped to the floor, the breath punched out of her.  She gasped for air and sobbed instead, her head falling towards her lap. 

_ To love somebody.   _

“John-” Sherlock fell to her knees and shuffled over. 

_ To love somebody.   _

John pushed her away.  “St-top.  I want to keep going.  Let me up.”

_ The way I love you. _

“Protea.”

“No, don’t do that!  Let me up.”  John pushed to get back up as the chorus repeated.  Sherlock pulled her back down and wrapped her in her arms as she cried, “I have seventeen more.  Let me up!”

“No.”  Sherlock said simply.  “Your safety is in question.  I will not have you continue.”

“I want to,” John sucked in a breath and tried to break away, but her arms felt like jello from all the pushups. 

“I safeworded.  Respect that.  Now stay.”  Sherlock wrapped her up tighter and pulled John’s sweating head against her neck, a hand cupping over her exposed ear. 

John pushed at her chest but her fingers slipped.  She collapsed into the embrace and shook her head, arms and feet falling to the floor. 

“Seven seconds, John.”  Sherlock cooed, pulling closer.  “Endorphins.  Don’t be stupid.”

John choked on a laugh, pulled her arms up, and wrapped them around Sherlock’s back.  When she felt Sherlock squeeze, she lost all semblance of restraint.  She bawled into Sherlock’s shoulder.  All sweat and tears and snot.   Shaking and hiccuping, she cursed ever meeting that man.  Ever meeting Moriarty.  


	23. Chess

Eventually, John caught her breath enough to slump into a boneless heap.  She stayed in Sherlock’s arms, slapped her cheek against her bony shoulder and huffed.  “He was supposed to be normal.  My one normal thing.”

Sherlock pulled her hand up John’s back and slid it across her damp face, pushing the loose hairs down and pulling at the hairband almost all the way free.  “I thought it was obvious, John.  We are not normal people.”

“No, you’re not normal, Sherlock.”  John sighed and closed her eyes, hugging her close.  “You’re extraordinary.  Above the masses.” 

“You-”  Sherlock awkwardly patted John’s head, “-have caught not only the attention of an evil, twisted, cow of a woman intent on making the world her plaything and killing anyone who bores her, but also the attention of her arch nemesis, the world’s only Consulting Detective.  To the point where she wants you around so desperately that she will belittle the masses just to keep you at her side.  It takes an extraordinary person to do that.”

John’s eyes filled with fresh tears and her hands fell to Sherlock’s waist.  “You belittle the masses anyway.”

“It’s special with you.”

John shook her head, wiping her fresh tears against Sherlock’s skin.  “I don’t understand why.”

Sherlock tipped her forehead against John’s and rested it there.  “Then it will be my pleasure to show you.” 

Time ticked by, enough where John knew she should pull back but she could not bring herself to do so.  Even when her muscles started to pulse she could not take herself away.  

It was Sherlock who shifted them so their heads were at a better angle, foreheads still stuck together.  John’s eyes were out of focus, being so close.  Her gaze dropped to the only thing she could make out without trouble, Sherlock’s curving cupid’s bow lips.  Cupid would make her go blind.  John’s lips trembled into a smile and she closed her eyes, leaning into the embrace.    

“Do you want a drink?” Sherlock suddenly asked and ripped her body back.

John fell into the suddenly vacated space with a grunt.  “Huh?” 

“Water or scotch?”  Sherlock practically ran to the kitchen to pull down glasses. 

John pulled her arms around her body and twisted from one side to the other, stretching out her abdominals.  She stared at Sherlock curiously.  “Both?”

Sherlock nodded once and ran around the kitchen gathering glasses and alcohol and cards.  She forgot the water, but John was not about to mention it.  

“What do you want to play?”  John asked, gesturing to the deck. 

“Chess?” Sherlock asked. 

John frowned at the cards.  “Chess?”

Sherlock stared at the cards as if they were the magic kind and had suddenly appeared out of thin air.  “We could... play something else.”

“Chess is fine,” John chuckled.  “But can you put the fire on?  I’m a bit chilly.” 

Sherlock nodded, started the fire, and found the chess pieces and board as John continued to stretch.  

John had never played Sherlock in chess before.  It was going to be very interesting, she was sure.  After all, it was not every day she had a sleepover with Sherlock so she could forget about her dumb ex-boyfriend.  All they were missing were their diaries and makeup kits.  

An hour and plenty of drinks later, Sherlock was on her stomach, eye level with the board, the closest expression to confused she could muster scrunching up her face.  “You’re good at this!”

“Yes I am, thank you very much!”  John laughed, taking one of Sherlock’s rooks.  “In the army, sometimes you have free time.  And sometimes you spend that free time playing chess.  So either I picked up a few things, or you are awful at chess.”

“I am not awful at chess!” Sherlock yelped and threw her rook at John, nearly hitting her almost full glass of scotch.

John took a swig and made another move.  “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Sherly.”  She adjusted herself closer to the fire and tilted her head back against her chair.  Being on the floor was not helping her aching back, or aching side, or aching arse.  

“You never did stretch your legs,” Sherlock said, sipped from her glass and casually eyed the board.  “Did you want help?”

A smile stretched over John’s warm, pink face.  “You want to help me stretch?”

“Aftercare, John.”  Sherlock said simply, as if John would know what that meant in her inebriated state. 

“Don’t tell me,”  John laughed and crawled away from the board to the middle of the warm room.  “You learned this- this Tibetan technique while working a case for someone in- Venezuela and became an expert in- in- in acupuncture rock therapy, or something.”

Sherlock snorted, set down her glass and followed.  “I’m fairly certain that was both ludicrous nonsense and a bit racist, Doctor Watson.”

John blew her a raspberry and swallowed another large gulp of her drink before setting it down.  “Alright.  Make my pain go away, Doctor Holmes.”

Sherlock scrunched up her face. 

John flopped to her back and groaned.  “Don’t tell me your brother has a doctorate or something.”

“No,” Sherlock said, crawling next to her.  “I do.  But I don’t like to be reminded of it.”

“Too pedestrian?” John joked and snorted again, coughed, and then lost herself to laugher.  She needed to roll to her side to breathe again. 

“Something like that, yes,” Sherlock smiled and held out a hand, palm up.  “Give me your leg.”

“Is that where you learned to stretch people’s legs?  In your doctorate program?”  John lifted both her legs in the air and dropped one of them into Sherlock’s waiting hand.  

“Honorary doctorate.”  Sherlock shook her head.  “Ludicrous things.”  She shifted in between John’s legs and started kneading at the flesh of her calf, moving up to the thigh.  

John swore she could smell honey and beeswax but for the life of her she could not figure out where it was coming from.  

Sherlock continued, “I hated uni.  I dropped out.”

“So it’s not even a real degree?”  John asked, lost looking at the ceiling.  It was hard to focus on the orange and yellow lights flickering above her.  Then it suddenly became hard to breath when Sherlock’s hands cupped close to her bum and her fingers trailed next to her inseam. 

“Hon-or-ar-y!” Sherlock enunciated for her.  

“Alright!” John laughed.  

Those hands pulled back up to John’s knee and held as Sherlock tucked her shoulder under the bend.  Sherlock shifted her weight forward and pressed against John’s knee until it was bobbing near her shoulder, her hovering face blocking the fuzzy lights.  “I learned to do this in a book.”

John smiled softly and reached up to move Sherlock’s stubborn hair away from her eyeball.  She knew just how annoying that could be and it was nice to return the favor for once.  “Why did you drop out of uni?”

Sherlock froze and dropped John’s leg, quickly moving on to repeat the same process on the other.  “Too many people.”

“Hmm.”  John shifted as Sherlock’s fingers danced towards her inseam once again.  

Then Sherlock was back to bobbing above her, pulsing the leg as she hovered, her body stretched over John’s full length, her movements quick and shallow, her body another blanket of heat in the already blazing room.  

A part of John’s hamstring stretched in just the right way and a small moan escaped.  Her eyes darted to the empty glass of scotch accusingly.  

“Your necklace is still on.”  Sherlock’s arm wriggled around Jon’s leg as she touched the suede rope circling at the base of John’s neck.  

John’s fingers jumped to the knots resting between her collar bones and looked up at Sherlock, her vision blurring.  She tried to trace the bone structure of Sherlock’s sharp jawline but it was not helping her focus.  “Did you want it back?”

Sherlock shook her head.  “This one suits you better.”

John snorted.  “Is that ‘cause it’s manly or ‘cause you made it?”

Sherlock’s fingers tickled between the ropes and gently tugged at one of the knots.  “I like it when you wear one.”

John shifted her leg until it fell off Sherlock’s shoulder and thumped to the floor.  “Why?”

“Momentarily,” Sherlock tilted her head and ducked closer to inspect the way the fibers clung to dried sweat.  “I get to be yours.”

John shook her head and reached up to move that stubborn hair from Sherlock’s eye again.  She had to hold it back against her ear to keep it from being a problem.  “I thought it was the other way around.”

Sherlock smiled softly and rolled her shining red lips.  “As per usual, Doctor.  You see but you do not observe.”  Her finger tucked under the necklace and skimmed around the rim.  “When you wear this.  I am completely at your mercy.  Even now, the safeword is still available.”

“You are?” John asked dumbly, focusing on the way Sherlock’s lips formed vowels. 

“I am.”  Sherlock’s head sunk closer still, the smell of liquor thick in the air between them.  “In our  tête-à-tête s, you always hold all the cards.” 

John shifted her other arm around Sherlock’s shoulder to help her keep from falling.  “I thought we were playing chess?”

Sherlock’s eyes did not flicker to the board.  “It’s your move.”

John’s heart was absolutely pounding, her fingers trembling against Sherlock’s ear.  Sherlock’s brow twitched and curved her lips up into the firelight.  She was close enough now that their noses rubbed, her body pressed against John’s torso and between her legs.  

John swallowed and her mouth fell open.  Her bottom lip slipped against Sherlock’s velvety smooth skin, passing across the corner of her mouth and smudging her lipstick.  John licked her lips and ended up doing it again, pressing her bottom lip into Sherlock’s and gently skimming down.  With one breath, her lip slid back up into the gap and enclosed over Sherlock’s top. 

Lips moved as slow as humanly possible with only the gentlest pressure caused by the ups and downs of breathing alone.  Time slowed with them.  Limbs frozen.  Only three slides of mouth were made before John pulled back with a gasp, air locked in her throat.  

In the moment between breaths there was a general feeling of confusion and panic muddling up John’s mind but no actual thoughts to communicate their origins.  A part of her was fighting for some sense of direction, somewhere to put that feeling, but it was hard to hold onto any wisps of thought.  

Wet heat pressed at John’s bottom lip and any resolve she had clinging to that last piece of sobriety rope snapped and fell to pieces.  John’s shaky exhale shattered the space between them.  They crashed into each other with body and mouth, teeth clacking together as arms wrapped around any body part they could reach.  They fumbled against each other, pressing and moving on two different wavelengths. 

John pulled at Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock’s teeth scraped against her bottom lip.  Their hips thrust together, legs slotting between one another.  John was not in control of herself when her arm slapped against Sherlock’s dress and fisted in the fabric, pulling Sherlock’s body against her as her hips ground up.  Sherlock shoved back into her, somehow still graceful and fluid as her body rolled.  

John sucked in a breath through her open mouth as her back arched.  Her limbs were numb from drink but the pulse of curling heat tugged from every direction.  Her mouth sloppily returned to Sherlock’s as their hips lurched and grinded together.

Sherlock’s exposed thighs were turning red against John’s camouflage trousers, but she only moved faster, meeting John’s desperate pace as the tension inside every nerve wound tighter.  John curled arms up Sherlock’s back and grabbed her shoulders, squeezing her closer in a bruising grip.  

Sherlock fumbled her arms out from under John’s as she pushed herself into a better angle, gripping at John’s tank top and pulling it with her as her hand fell back to the floor.  Manicured nails scraped over John’s belt and scratched the soft curves of exposed stomach until they brushed her sports bra.  Sherlock fisted into the bottom of the fabric and tugged it tight against John’s hardened nipple, sparking a small cry from John as her body jerked up and down, unsure of which direction it wanted to go.  

John hissed and threw her head back as her body continued to frantically squirm.  Her hair pulling behind her shoulder only just dragged her attention enough for her to notice.  Sherlock was there in an instant, wrapping her hair up and around her arm, pulling her in for another wet kiss.  John pushed her tongue sloppily inside Sherlock’s mouth, trying to focus as the world spiralled in a whirl of heat and bright colors, the familiar taste of scotch blooming to the forefront of it all.

John slapped her hand around Sherlock’s naked thigh and pulled her up, grinding harder as the teasing pleasure demanded her full attention.  They stopped kissing and started breathing into one another, faster and faster. 

Sherlock’s forehead fell to John’s jaw and her mouth fell to the choker, biting down on the ropes.  John groaned and her center pulsed, thrusting even harder, her sore body pushing its limits as the barrier broke and blissful waves ebbed and flowed from the tips of her toes up to her head and back down where they burst from her stomach with a final cry.  Sherlock was with her the entire time, grunting into John’s neck, collapsing onto her only after it was over. 

Loud pants were all that filled the room.  Neither able to move.  

They just turned from sexual without the sex, to dry humping like a couple of uni kids. John had not come from that in… well since uni.  It was not a very practical way to do so and usually took an hour of fumbled grinding, figuring out the angle and pressure that could perfectly affect her clothed clit.  Partners usually screwed it up on their part.  There was really no point to it when sex was always a better option.  

John eyed the nearly empty scotch bottle warily.  

“We are very drunk,” John tried to laugh and her arms fell around Sherlock’s back in a half hug.

Sherlock grunted sleepily against her neck, suede still caught in her teeth.

John sucked in a breath and tried to find a clock.  “We need bed.  Doctor’s orders.  And water.  And painkillers.”

“And vitamins,” Sherlock mumbled. 

“Sure,” John nodded, knocking her head against the floor.  “I guess you’re a doctor too.”

Sherlock huffed and managed to push herself off with a pout.  She sat up and stared down at her exposed chest and thighs quizzically.  She started to shift the fabric but the strap around her arm caught the rest of her dress.  She gave up and reached around for the zip, undoing it and stripping to nothing but her pants.  Clearly the exposure of her breasts did not bother her as she stretched in front of the open window and sauntered off to her bedroom. 

John got up in her own time and slowly made sure the fire was out before making it to the stairs, chugging the rest of her drink on the way.  It was going to be one hell of a hangover.


	24. Run

When John woke up, she was alone, in half her military uniform, cradling her head under a pillow.  The hangover was not as awful as she had expected, but she had prepared.  An empty glass of water sat on her nightstand next to painkiller packets… and a vitamin bottle.

Vitamins.  That was Sherlock’s doing.  

That and the mind blowing, groping like teens, grinding with clothes on, orgasm.  And the kissing.  There was kissing.   With mouths.

John groaned and rolled onto her back.  That had to be a dream.  Some sort of fucked up dream her subconscious threw at her as a way to get over her breakup.  Feel close to Sherlock, get over man.  A plus B equals making out with women, apparently.  But that was just because… oh god.  She did not know. 

She could have sworn she drank enough to black out at least a little bit.  It could have been a drunk dream.  All of it could have been.  The kissing, the art, Martin. 

Her gaze instantly dropped to her left hand.  It had always been bare before.  Now she was sure it would always remain that way.  Fucking men.  Fucking Moriarty.  Fucking fuck. 

She gripped her head in her hands and squeezed once before pushing herself up and fixing her bed. 

A jog was exactly what she needed to wake up and move on with her life.  Dealing with the loss of a pretend boyfriend of half a year, turned half a minute fiancé, and the sudden urge to neck her best friend could come later.  Exercise always made her forget to think, her already aching muscles be damned. 

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, still locked away in her bedroom, hopefully sleeping it off.   Lestrade would be over in a few hours to pick up the art and take it to the museum experts for scans and tests.  Sherlock chipped off a bit of paint herself, testing for forgery and the like.  John wrote a post it note and stuck it next to the small painting, reminding her to remind Lestrade to tell the curator.  No need for them to think it a worthless knock off when they went through so much trouble to get it. 

A scam engagement and betrayal breakup really called for a change of pace.  John walked past Regent’s Park and checked her pocket -these running shorts were equipped for the modern woman.  Sherlock could call or text if she wanted -though, selfishly, John hoped it could wait until after her run.  

Maybe even next week.  

Or month.  

Or never.  

John was not quite sure she could handle a ‘we drank and now I have dried cum on my thighs, what can we deduce?’ text.  Even a simple ‘John -SH’ would have her running away to Cardiff.

Three stops on the underground and she would be in a new park, running a new path filled with unfamiliar faces, nowhere near any cases or schools or therapists offices.  

Naturally, leaving the flat without leaving any sort of message where she was going or how long she would be gone meant it was only a matter of time before a hulking bear of a man in a big black suit sidled up to her on the car bench and flashed a gun.  Everyone else in the car had mysteriously and conveniently decided to get off at the next stop.  When John bent around the familiar looking goon, she could see that held true for all the other cars as well.  The entire train.  She was completely alone. 

“Fantastic,” she sighed and smiled at the bear man.  “Lovely to see you again.”

No reaction at all.  Just like the last time. 

“Jim,” John called out.  “I’m really not in the mood.  Can we reschedule?”

“Afraid not, Johnny boy,” Moriarty called, her voice almost incomprehensible through the overhead system, though John was sure she was not actually anywhere near the train.  “Be a dear and put on the blindfold.”

The bear man held out a long strip of black silk. 

“Some other time?” John asked pleasantly, ignoring the grim invitation. 

“She says,” the bear man gruffed, “You and Sherly do it all the time.  What’s the big deal?”

John glared at the silk and scratched at her neck, flinching when she touched suede.  She forgot to take off the necklace.  

“You can either be blindfolded, drugged, or both,” he continued.   “She says to pick your poison.”

John eyed the small bluetooth hiding in the man’s ear and sighed.  Poison and a hangover would really not mix very well.  “Fine.”  She grabbed the blindfold and strapped it around herself, making sure to leave a bit of space under her eyes. 

Sherlock was not going to be a happy camper when she woke up. 

Next thing John knew, she was dragged up some stairs in an eerily quiet tunnel and shoved into the back of a car.  She tried, yet again, to remember the twists and turns but she barely knew for sure which stop they had exited and they had circled the block at least twice. 

Her phone easily slipped out of her pocket but she was hopeless at texting with her eyes closed.  The minute she opened it up, it started beeping and the bear man took it away from her. 

After exiting the stopped car and walking up another labyrinth of stairs, the blindfold was removed.  She stood in the middle of a great library facing an empty desk and two hulking bodyguards.  

She had been joking before, but she really needed that bum bag.  Running with a gun was becoming a necessity. 

“Johnny boy!”  Moriarty practically sang as she dashed through the door.  As soon as she was able, she spun in front of John and kissed her on each cheek like some overzealous relative.  John tried not to squirm.  Moriarty wrinkled her nose and looked her up and down.  “Well, well.  You had a rough night.”  She pointed at the bite mark John knew blossomed on her neck and winked devilishly.  “But a fun one I see.”

“Can’t this wait?” John snapped.  She pulled at her hairband and shoved her hair around her shoulders.  “I was rather hoping for a run.”

Moriarty threw her hands up and walked behind the desk.  “You can run in the backyard with the rest of the dogs.  Glenn and Stevie-” she gestured to the bodyguards, “-will accompany you, of course.  They could use a little exercise.”  She grabbed Glenn, the bear man, under the chin and shook his head side to side while baby-talking.  “I hardly ever take them out.”

“And what makes you think I’ll be staying?” John asked pointedly.  

“You don’t have a choice, darling,” Moriarty countered and slumped into the chair.  “I need you-”

“As collateral for the painting, yes I’ve gathered.”  John’s eyes continued to dart around the room, taking in the cameras and the locked windows.  “Sherlock doesn’t have the painting anymore.  So I’m not going to be very much use.”

“Au contraire, Johnny.”  Moriarty threw her heels up on the desk and bit the ring on her finger.  “I don’t want it now.  What’s the point if your lap dogs are going to do the work for me?”  She swept out her hands nonchalantly and lapped her lips.  “Then Sherly will steal it back for me and bing, bang, bop, we have a swap.”  

“So that’s really it?” John straightened herself up.  “You just wanted that painting this whole time?  All those people dead over that little thing?  Granted, they weren't my kind of people.”

“I know someone that is your kind of people, Jooooaaaaan.” Moriarty’s smile fell along with her feet, her human facade melting into her natural cobra-like smirk.  She coiled over her desk to get a better look at her prey.  “Are you upset I sent your precious fiancé to pick it up for me?  Which he failed at by the way.  He’s off hiding.  OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE!”  She screamed and burst out into laughter.  “When I catch him, and darling you know I will, how would you like him killed?”  Her head cocked and her fangs gleamed.  “Slow or fast?  Painful or excruciating?  Heat or ice?  Knife?  Gun?  Should I just invite you to do it?  That could be fun.”

John’s teeth hurt from clenching.  “He’s not my fiancé.”

Moriarty’s eyes gleamed and she breathed, “No.  No more.”

That soulless gaze bore into John with exorbitant delight and unsolicited desire.  Clearly she enjoyed her time toying with John’s heart.  How wonderful for her. 

While the silence dragged on, John let her eyes drift to the empty fireplace in the hopes of coming up with a plan.  She did not want to be anyone’s pawn piece to bing, bang, bop or swap.  

Moriarty broke the silence with a teasing growl.  “You celebrated.”  She pointed at the side of her own neck, scratching a finger over the bit where shoulder met neck.  “Did Sherlock fuck you into the floor like a good girl?”

“Do you ever shut the hell up?!”  John snapped.  She huffed out a breath and slipped her hands behind her body, reminding herself that she could not lose it completely in front of a psychopathic nut job.  Not unless she wanted to replace the painting and decorate the walls with her insides.

“Touched a sensitive spot, did I?” Moriarty chuckled and trailed her fingers up and down the edge of the desk, her tongue poking between her teeth.  “I guess Sherly and I have that in common.”  She cracked a smile and continued to rub the desk.  “You have so many soft spots, Johnny.  I think one night, I’m going to find them all.  Rip my claws inside and see what makes you tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.”

John swallowed.  “Sounds lovely.  But I think I’ll go for that run now.”

“Awwwww,” Moriarty pouted.  “I wanted to spend this time getting to know you, darling!  You can’t cut our date short!  You may find you’ll want to stay.”  She thrust her hands over her heart and swayed dramatically.  “Fix me like you fix Sherlock.  Hike up those bootstraps and tape me back together with spit and gum.  Whatever is it you do for her that keeps her shattered pieces clinging together?”

“No offense, mate, but there’s no fixing the kind of crazy you are.”

“An expert now, are you?  That therapist of yours been rubbing off on you?  Actually from what I hear, there wasn’t much rubbing at all.”  Moriarty leaned back in her chair and twirled in a circle, over and over.  “Poor Frank.  I’ll have to send you his balls.  I’m sure they’ll make pretty blue earrings.”

John resolutely kept her mouth shut. 

“John Watson.  Lover of monsters.”  She spun around one last time before suddenly stopping and gesturing to the windows.  “Maybe that should be the next headline.” 

“Maybe you should-”  John started but caught herself with the bite of her tongue. If Moriarty decided to throw her out the window, it would no doubt result in a broken leg.  There was a large garden below on one side of the room, some kind of deck on the other.  It was either land in the rose bush or the concrete and she was not inclined to do either.  No sign of any neighbors to help her wobble off.  

“You tear people down from their pedestals and scoop out their hearts.” She mimed scooping out a heart of her own, her fingers pulsing as she held it in front of her flickering eyes.  “Analyse them from every angle, until you see the specks of good and dig them out with your teeth.”  She chomped into the air and threw her head around like a dog before dropping the whole act in an instant.  “Even the self-proclaimed sociopaths.”

“Are we still talking about Martin?”

Moriarty’s phone beeped and she held up a finger in apology as she read the text.  “Sherly’s realized you’re missing.  She really should keep better watch on you.  Maybe an ID chip.  What do you think?  I could get one installed in your neck by morning.  No more lost puppies.”  She slipped out of the chair and marched to John’s side.  “Smile pretty.  Sherly wants a picture.  Do let her know how nice I’ve been to you.”  She held up her phone with the camera app open and turned it on them, her face peeking up from the bottom, her lips pouted into the horrible ‘duck face’  She tapped her foot impatiently when John did not smile automatically.  “We haven’t got all day!”

John grit her teeth and pulled up the corners of her mouth up, hoping it would do. 

Moriarty snapped the photo and tapped on her phone as she spun around the room.  “Don’t worry, baby doll.  I’ve had numerous threats from your girlfriend.”  She held up her phone.  “I touch you, she burns my piece.”

“And she knows how much it means to you.” John said, chin raised.  

Moriarty slid her gaze to the side but continued to type on her phone.  “Watch your mouth, pet.  I may just sew it shut.”  She closed the phone down and popped it in her pocket with a small jump.  “Lunch tomorrow.  I’m afraid duty calls.  I have been rather busy with all this madness lately.  These politicians have so many requests!”  She stopped in front of John, their eyes locking.  “It’s hard to believe they’re not all just lizard people.”

Moriarty continued to stare and John held her ground, glaring into the empty darkness behind those nearly black irides.  

“I’ll be sure to compliment her.”  Moriarty's fingernail traced up the side of John’s arm, stinging it’s way to her neck and snagging under the ropes of her choker.  John could not help the gasp.  The band was stronger than the lace and it was cutting uncomfortably tight .  “Her collar really does make you look delicious.”

Moriarty let go and John choked out a breath, ignoring the usual, “Caio.” 

John took a moment to force her knees to stop wobbling.  She was not strapped in a bomb vest, this was already better than the last kidnapping.  The bodyguards were staying away and there were no guns trained on her, at least none that she could see.  There was the potential sniper in the garden but that would be a tricky shot for anyone, John included.  She trusted Sherlock would do everything she could to keep her safe and come to her rescue.  In the meantime, she was a soldier, dammit.  There was only time left to kill.  

Hopefully only time anyway and John would not be what they were having for lunch tomorrow. 

“Come on, boys,” John said, pulling herself up and tying her hair back up.  “We’re going for a run.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to rename this from The One With All The Cocks... When There Are No Cocks to The One With The Neverending Bum Bag Joke... When It Really Should Have Ended.


	25. Ma’am

John had a very lovely run considering men holding guns to her back followed her the entire time.  

It was extremely motivating.  

Afterwards, she had been shown into a very lovely room with a lovely ensuite where she could take a lovely shower before a lovely meal was brought to her by a terrified housekeeper.  While poison was still fresh on the brain, Moriarty had left a note that assured her nothing was amiss.  Of course, that would never calm John’s mind.

In order to get John strapped in a vest full of semtex Moriarty had set up a food truck giving away free samples.  One of those free samples passed under John’s nose just as she was walking by and, really, Sherlock was a pain to get to eat when on a case and John was hungry.  One bite of special-made cheesey crackers and John stumbled into an alley where she passed out and woke up next to a pool.

The dinner was much less appetizing than cheesey crackers but came wrapped in the original plastic.  John was sure Sherlock, and therefore Moriarty, could find a way to drug something still in the plastic but she was still a bit hungover and very, very thirsty.  She started with the water and when that did not force her to collapse, she took a bite of the plastic wrapped vending machine sandwich and decided it would be alright.

The bed too was lovely and while John spent most of the night clinging to a lamp and watching the door for any movement, she did get a tiny bit of sleep.

After a silent day of reading to herself and sometimes aloud to a silent Glenn, John found herself sitting at a round table in a very uncomfortable ornate wooden high back chair, staring at a white and silver table set.  It would have been perfectly ordinary if it had not been for the bodyguards in the corners of the room or the sweaty man strapped to the chair next to her.  

John wanted to ask him who he was, what he had done to get Moriarty’s attention, if he knew about the painting, why he had duct tape over his mouth and ropes binding him to the wood, but she was sure no one in the room would answer her.  She gave him a sympathetic smile and continued to stare at her empty plate until the door to the dining room shoved open and Moriarty danced in, incomprehensible music blaring from her phone speakers.

“Do mind my manners you two, but I’m afraid Sherlock is being rather persistent in talking with you.”  Moriarty spun the phone around and quieted the noise, still talking at John.  The silence only brought the man’s panicked breathing back to the forefront but Moriarty paid him no mind and so John pretended to do the same.  “You see, I was supposed to get my painting today.  AT LUNCH.  As you can see, it is dinner.  I do so hate tardiness.  She would rather I not cut off one of your arms.”  Moriarty shrugged carelessly.  “Trivial.”

Moriarty shoved the phone under John’s nose and she lunged for it, answering hurriedly, “Sherlock?”

“John!”  Sherlock sounded immensely relieved and then quickly sputtered off clipped demands, all sorts of worry lacing her panicked breaths.  “Whatever she says, do it.  I’m so sorry for this.  The _idiot_ running the machine lost their password and was too stupid to tell anyone!”  Someone whined in the distance on her end.  “Whatever she makes you do.  It is not your fault.  It’s mine.  Just please, please do whatever she-”

Moriarty pulled the phone from her ear.  

John yelled, “Sherlock!”

“That’s enough.”  One click and John was cut off completely, the phone back in her captor’s pocket.  Moriarty turned to her guests and clapped her hands together.  “Now.  How about some introductions.”  Moriarty nodded to Stevie and the man walked forward and ripped the duct tape from the other man’s mouth, his breathing now alarmingly fast.  Moriarty turned to John and gestured to him.  “Have you met Richard?  He’s the one that owns this lovely home.  Don’t you, Dick?”

Richard’s eyes flickered between John, Moriarty, the bodyguards, and the door, panic nearly overtaking his dilated pupils.  He stuttered an answer when Moriarty looked like she was contemplating stabbing him with the candlestick.  “Y-yes.”

Moriarty smiled and gestured to John.  “And of course you know Doctor Watson.”

“Doctor?”  Richard asked hopefully, leaning as close to her as he could get without tipping his chair over.

Moriarty sighed loudly and leaned over the table, pulling RIchard’s face between her hands, pinching his cheeks, inspecting every line on his gleaming brow.  “So that’s what hope looks like in your pretty brown eyes.”  She pinched him painfully tight and tossed his head side to side.  “If I dunked your face in liquid nitrogen could I keep it on my wall?  Or, well, I suppose my freezer.”

Richard cried out between her palms.

“It bounces off,” John answered coldly.  If anything, she could at least distract Moriarity's attentions away from the terrified man and reassure him at the same time.  “It won’t stick to the skin.  Sherlock’s had it in the flat a dozen times.”

Moriarty still refused to drop her hold.  “Not if I held it under.”

Richard’s breathing hitched.

John shook her head.  “Then it would just be an iceblock.”

“How right you are!”  Morality’s laughter filled the room and she let Richard go with a hard push that almost made him topple backwards.  She then stepped towards the only empty spot at the table, opposite John.

“Why is he hoping for a doctor?” John called after her, looking at Richard as he failed to compose himself.

“Dick-” It was impossible not to hear the emphasis on the nickname, “-lied to me.  And until he can come up with the funds to fix the blood-filled bed he’s made, he’s on a timeline.  The poison will settle in soon, unless he works for the antidote.  Sounds like something a doctor should inject.  I always tend to miss with needles.  Veins, eyes, they all lead inwards, don’t they?”  Moriarty shoved her body back and clacked a knife against her empty plate.  “Want to watch his face melt with me?  Go on.  Tell him, Doc.  Tell him the truth.”

“I…”  John’s brow pinched.  Richard’s eyes widened and his grip on the arm of his chair tightened.   “I don’t have it.  I don’t have an antidote.  I’m sorry.”

It took a moment for the words to settle.  Richard looked to Moriarty, back at John, and then at his empty plate, his face falling.

“Delicious.”  Moriarty cooed.  “Let’s eat!  It is Dick’s last meal after all.  It is a good one.  Duck!”  John grit her teeth and glared at her cup.  “Oh, don’t look like that.  I used my poison on him, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”  

The terrified housekeeper swept into the room a moment later with a tray full of food and drink.  Moriarty clapped her over and the poor young thing nearly tripped to get to the madwoman fast enough.  The girl locked eyes with Richard sympathetically but there was nothing she could say with Glenn right behind her.  As soon as she finished plating John’s duck she tried to run for it.

“Heel!” Moriarty yelped.

The girl froze.

Moriarty snapped her fingers.  “Drinks.”

The girl spun slowly and sputtered, “Wha- what?”

Moriarty's voice hardened.  “Pour.  Our.  Drinks.”

The girl clipped her heels together and practically ran back to the cart to fish out wine bottles.  

Moriarty shook her head dramatically.  “So hard to find good help these days.”  She turned to Richard.  “Though I can see why you keep her around.  Those lips must be great for mouth fucking.   Wouldn’t you say, Johnny?”

John found her eyes darting to the startled girl’s open mouth and immediately looked resolutely at Moriarty’s throat.  John never excelled at knife throwing and there was nothing sharper than a butter knife, but anything was possible.

“I’ve always appreciated a good set of lips,” Moriarty hummed aloud.  She pointed to her glass and demanded, “Red.”

The housekeeper struggled to open the bottle with shaking, sweaty fingers.  The corkscrew went in but she ripped a piece off before getting it to enter properly.  

Moriarty was suddenly on her feet and John was at full attention, her legs primed to lunge under the table.  

“Jessica,” Richard whispered desperately.

Jessica froze as Moriarty’s hands covered hers and pressed the corkscrew down.  Moriarty leaned in, mouth open, her teeth grazing the girl’s neck.  Jessica cried, frozen on the spot.  There was one long, loud inhale before Moriarty pulled back, yanking the cork with her.  

“Oh yes,” Moriarty hummed.  “Very fuckable.”

Jessica had tears in her eyes as she grabbed Moriarty’s cup and poured, nearly splashing onto the fine, white setting.  It took all the the girl’s concentration but she finished with a mighty sigh and moved onto Richard and then finally John before running from the room.

When it was only the three of them, and Stevie, of course, John decided to break the silence by reaching for her cup.  

Moriarty tisked right away.  ”Oh, but I didn’t say you could eat yet.  Weren’t you listening to your Sherly?  Are you going to ignore your master’s orders?”

John stilled and put her cup back on the table without letting it go.  “What?”

Moriarty smirked.  “Where’s your collar?”

John reached for her neck but her eyes flickered to her pocket.  She had remembered to undo the knots before bed and slipped it into her shorts.  

“Put it on,” Moriarty commanded.  

There was a moment where John contemplated taking a page out of Sherlock’s book and throwing her wine at Stevie as a distraction before diving in with the butter knife and fork.  She could at least take out an eye.  

Then again, Sherlock did sound desperate when she asked her to do whatever the bitch wanted.  A desperate Sherlock was never a good sign.  

“Fine.”  John pulled the suede ropes from her pocket.  It had twisted up into more knots but she did not bother trying to fix it.  She reached around her neck and tied the necklace off as best as she could without looking, ignoring the extra pull from the twists that did not belong.

“Lovely.”  Moriarty sipped her wine.  “Now put your plate on the ground.”

John went back to glaring.  Moriarty flicked her gaze to Stevie.  Stevie walked up directly behind her, his clenched fists promising violence if Moriarty had to repeat herself.

With no room for argument, John lifted her duck-filled plate from the table and carefully set it down on the ground.  

“Good,” she purred.  “Now get on all fours and eat it like a dog.  With your mouth.  No hands.”

John saw red spots flare.  She glanced once at Stevie, caught eyes for a moment with Richard, and then shook her head.  “I’m not doing that.”

“You are!” Moriarty giggled.  Her hand dove under the table and came up with a revolver.  She tipped the barrel of the very real gun at John before sweeping it to Richard, aiming it directly at his temple.  “Or I’ll shoot him.”

Richard flinched and his forehead hit the metal.  He whimpered aloud and his eyes glossed over.  John gripped the table and stood, only to be forced back into her seat by both of Stevie’s meaty hands shoving against her shoulders.

“Look at you!”  Moriarty waved the gun around, aiming it at everyone including herself at least once before resting it against Richard’s temple again.  “I’m threatening to shoot a corpse!  Why do you care SO MUCH, puppy?!”  

John looked at Richard.  Yes, he was probably some criminal if he was associated with Moriarty and had a mansion like this.  But he was a man who was quivering in his ropes, unable to open his eyes as he prayed in frantic whispers.

John eyed the food at her feet and nodded once.  She lowered her good knee first and carefully brought the rest of herself to the floor until she was on her hands and knees.  

“Well,” Moriarty humed gleefully.  She slowly slipped the gun from Richard’s head and twirled it near her own.  “Don’t stop now!  Bring your plate to me so I can pet you like a good boy.  Don’t make me get the leash.”

John swallowed her pride and picked up the plate with one hand.  She knew this game and stayed in a crawling position until she was at Moriarty’s side.  It felt absolutely humiliating.  But this was Moriarity.  That was her point.  

“That’s a pretty puppy.” Moriarty cooed and roughly pet at John’s ponytail, yanking the ends a bit before petting at her neck. No safeword this time.  “I see why she gets off on this.”  Those fingers scratched with razor sharp nails along her exposed shoulder before they disappeared.  The gun was suddenly in front of John’s face, Moriarty’s hands cupping it by the handle as she leaned over and whispered, “I can make you do anything and you’ll beg me for it.  Go on, beg me to pet you.  DO IT!”

“Please, Jim,” John growled.  “Pet me like a dog.”

Moriarty gasped and grabbed John’s face with an iron grip, the hilt of the gun shoved against her cheek, the barrel resting just along her temple.  Once she knew she had John’s attention, she slowly released her fingers and stroked down John’s cheek and under her chin.  “Such a cute puppy!  I could just skin you alive and make myself a brand new coat.”  Her claws retracted as she leaned back in her chair and kicked John’s plate of duck.  

John looked at the food, back up at Moriarty, and dipped her head down.  The duck was still on the bone and covered in some sort of orange jelly.  There would be no way around a mess.  She led with her teeth and ripped off a piece, smacking her lips together as she tried to chew around a vein.  

Moriarty’s hand jumped to her neck and forced her back down to the plate, keeping her shoulders at an awful angle.  John hissed but said nothing.

Moriarty’s fingers stroked the choker as she whispered reverently, “Sherly made me promise not to tie you up in the bedroom.  But you wouldn’t tell her.  No.  No, you wouldn’t.”  She moaned and grabbed her by the necklace, shoving her fingers under the knots keeping it together, and yanked.  John choked at the lack of air and scratched at the suede cutting into her neck.  “I could make you fuck me.”  She breathed out a happy laugh.  “Or maybe him or him.”  She pointed the gun at Stevie and Richard.  “You wouldn’t tell her because she has a delicate little heart, our Sherlock, doesn’t she?  You wouldn’t want her to know how much you would get off on letting me fuck your brains-”  

“Piss off,” John ground out roughly.

Moriarty tugged harder, effectively cutting off all her air.  “Feisty puppy!  You need a shock collar.”  She threw John to the ground hard, sending one of her arms through her plate of food.  

John gasped in her breaths and coughed up the phlegm stuck in her airway.  

“Tell Sherlock that’s what you want for the next time you fuck,” Moriarty cheered happily.  “I hear it makes your orgasms electric.”

John glared up at her from the floor.  

“Oh.  Oh, oh!” Moriarty cheered happily.  “You haven’t fucked!  Oh but- but you have!  Oh my god!  This is precious.  The virgin who’s scared of emotions and the bisexual so far in the closet she can’t see her own wet cunt!”

“Fuck you,” John growled, and started choking on air again.

“Aw.”  Moriarty suddenly spun to Richard, the gun teetering between his eyeballs.  “Doesn’t she make an adorable pet?”

Richard nodded his head frantically.  “Y-y-yes, m-m-ma’a-”

John jumped to a seated position and yelled hoarsely, “Don’t call her that!”

It was too late.

The silence that followed tore through the air and smashed into John’s gut.  

No, no, no.  

No one called Moriarty ma’am.  No one.  The end result was always the same.  The last time she heard it was a hostage trying to describe her voice, calling her ma’am before it was drowned out by the explosion that rang out over the phone and echoed over every news channel covering the bombings.  

“He didn’t say it,” John rushed to whisper.

“Quiet, pet,” Moriarty mumbled, perfectly still, eerily unblinking at Richard.

Richard’s face swallowed itself in red and his arms frantically fought to escape his binds.  

“Moriarty,” John shuffled to her knees and slipped between Moriarty’s legs.  “Don’t.  Listen to me.  Please just listen to me.”  

Moriarty refused to look John’s way.  

John dared to put her hands on Moriarty’s thighs and gripped tight.  “James.  Jim.  I am begging you.”  

There was still no reaction, just a tense thread of violence ready to unwind through a single, explosive twitch of a finger.  

John calculated the distance to the gun.   “Please.  He didn’t know.  Don’t do it.  Please.”

Moriarty did not look at John, her hollow face stabbing into Richard’s screaming soul.  Calmly, she responded to John with, “Persuade me, pet.  Why don’t you want me to shove this gun down his throat and strip him of his insides?  It might be a mercy.  The poison will not be pretty.”

Richard cried, his eye overflowing with tears.  The praying started once again.

“Jim,” John begged, inching her way up Moriarty’s body, her eyes on the gun hovering near Richard’s mouth.

Moriarty chuckled darkly.  “You’re a bit of a monster yourself, aren’t you sweetheart?”

“He didn’t know.”

“Not gooOOOOooood enough,” Moriarty sang through her teeth.

John’s breath caught.  She rose higher and quickly reached for the gun but Moriarty slipped it out of her grasp.  In the same slick move, Moriarty wrapped her arms around John and pulled until she fell into her lap, knees slapping against the wooden back of the chair, her chest pressed against Moriarty’s front, the gun solid against the curve of her back.

Moriarty slipped the butt of the gun against John’s spine and whispered a broken, “Distract me.”

John’s face pinched and she tried to lean away and shoved at Moriarty’s arm but that gun barricaded her in.  She looked down at Moriarty with a pained frown but Moriarty only smiled.  

Moriarty finally looked away from Richard and up into John’s eyes.  She shoved John’s wayward bangs out of her face, those nails scraping against the back of her ear.  “Be a good little doggy and give me a kiss.”

John swallowed the bile rising in her throat and leaned forward, pinching her eyes closed.  With only a momentary pause, she shoved her face down and smashed her lips against Moriarty’s.

Moriarty shoved a tongue into her mouth and swept it across her teeth, tasting her at every angle possible.  John recoiled from the sharp sting of wine but Moriarty yanked on her hair and John gasped.  Moriarty shoved her tongue in further and started eating at John’s slack lips, taking every piece of her she could, scraping and pulling.  John recoiled instinctively but felt the gun shift threateningly against her and heard Richard’s scared squeak.  

John pushed her face in further and allowed Moriarty her fun, right up until the last lick across her mouth and over her cheek.  

When it was over, John whispered,  “Please.”

Moriarty stared into her eyes with something akin to victory.  She licked her lips, caressed John’s cheek, and said, “No.”

The bang of the gun pounded against John’s back.  

“No!” John screamed and spun but Richard had already slumped forward, well beyond saving.

Blood splashed over the white cloth, in his food and in his wine.  Most of the burst had landed on John’s back but she could see drops slipping down her forearm.  Horrified, she touched her face and felt hot blood smear.

“Come here, darling.”  Moriarty cooed, “It’s alright.” Moriarty pulled John’s stunned body close and rubbed a hand up and down her back, smearing the blood into her shirt.  She turned to Stevie and whispered, “Get the help in here to clean this up.”

John had her moment.  She shoved her head into Moriarty’s throat and bit down.  When Moriarty yelped in pain, John shoved her knee into the woman’s gut.  The gun dropped and John leapt to grab it, but Stevie was quicker than she gave him credit for.  With one swift kick, he sent her directly to the ground with all the wind knocked out of her.  

“Johnny boy!”  Moriarty jumped up and down, rubbing at her throat gleefully.  “We don’t bite our owners.”

“I’m not your fucking dog!” John yelled.  Her wriggling was only smearing red on the wooden floor.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Johnny!”  Moriarty took her turn getting in a good kick across John’s jaw.  Blood welled over her tongue.  “You are!”

John resolved to stay silent as Moriarty clipped away in her heels.

Jessica entered a moment later.  She dropped to her knees and screamed.  


	26. Tim

In the middle of the night, John was still wide awake.  The shower did nothing to make her feel clean. Her clothes were soaking wet, hanging up to dry after she tried to scrub the blood out by hand.  

There was a bay window in her room with a view of the pool in the backyard.  Stevie was walking around the perimeter, hands behind his back, bluetooth in his ear.  That meant the ever-silent Glenn was back at her side, just outside her door, making sure she would not try anything. 

The thing about Glenn though, he was a man.  Men all had one weakness. 

John Watson in nothing but a sheet.  

“Hi,” John called from the door. 

Glenn was standing at attention along the adjacent war.  He barely looked her way, but she did not miss the way his eyebrows rose a fraction. 

John smirked and slipped into the hall, letting the golden sheet slide delicately over her unmarred shoulder, head high, shoulders back.  It was all about confidence, after all. Despite Sherlock’s games, John was quite good at the art of seduction. “Do you think you could get me a cuppa?  Tap water just isn’t doing it for me right now.”

Glenn ignored her. 

John grit her teeth and dropped more of the sheet, exposing both of her shoulders on either side.  “I could go with you.” She slid forward and tucked a hand between the edges, pulling the fabric from her thighs, revealing her naked legs.  “No one will really mind-” She rested that hand delicately on Glenn’s chest and slowly pulled it down to his waist, feeling out every piece of weaponry he had stowed away, “-what we get up to when it’s just the two of us.”  She sucked in a breath and pushed the sheet off completely, gripping it in her free hand. “Will they?”

Glenn looked down once and quickly grunted, “I’m gay.”

“Oh,” John said shortly.  

Then, she gripped the stun gun she felt, ripped it out of his pocket and shoved it into his neck.  He tried to push at her arm but she blocked him with the sheet, shoving it over his face. This unfortunately dislodged the stun gun, so she pushed him into the wall and kicked him in the gut.  

While he tackled her across the hall, she pulled the sheet tight around his neck and yanked.  They both fell, her body stuck underneath. With one meaty hand he held her head down. With the other he reached for the bluetooth in his ear.  

John lunged with her lower half, nailed him with a fist in the side, and slammed the end of the stun gun into his upper thigh.  Fabric burned when she pulled the trigger but electricity traveled through to flesh and Glenn slumped off of her. She lunged to her side and kneed him in the face, twice for good measure.  

Glenn was out cold. 

“That’s fine,” John said and pulled the sheet back up.  “All fine.”

There was no time to grab her wet clothes so she quickly threw on underwear, pinched the sides of the sheet together and threw them around her body, tucking the edges into her bra.  It was not the best looking toga but it would do for an escape attempt. She searched Glenn’s body and pulled out his phone and gun. She did not have anywhere great to store it, so she tucked the phone into her bra as well.  It would do. 

John opened her ears to the rest of the mansion but no one seemed to have noticed the scuffle.  She inched her way down the hall and thrust her stolen gun into the air. It felt really good to have something solid and heavy between her hands again.  

There were only really two hallways that John had mapped out.  One led to the dining room from her bedroom and the other led to the office Moriarty had greeted her in.  As far as she could remember while blindfolded, they had taken her up a flight of stairs to get to the office.  From her bedroom she could see the pool and the backyard but no street. Therefore she needed to cross the house and go down a few flight of stairs.  Easy. She hoped. 

Finding the stairs was simple enough and only her footsteps echoed back at her.  She could see a brand new hall leading toward the front of the house and she cautiously stepped onto the carpet rug, keeping her footsteps light.  There were plenty of doors lining the way but there was only a light on in one. She cautiously approached, keeping the gun level. 

In the moment she turned to check her six, she heard a scream. 

“You bastard!  You utter, fucking bastard!”

John bolted towards the door and thrust it open, gun leading the way, ready to shoot whoever was making an innocent screech. 

She froze. 

A young teenage boy slowly turned to her, his headphones dropping off his ears, his game controller slowly sliding to the floor.  

Video game.  He was yelling at someone on the video game.  

It was some kind of shooting game, first person.  John could see the character on the telly die and the image fade to red.  

The boy looked back at the game and groaned, “Shit.”

John looked for anyone else in the room but they seemed to be the only two.  “Are you alright?”

The boy went back to the video game but at least had the decency to remove his headphones.  “I’ll be fine-” he yelled into the microphone, “-ONCE I GET THAT TOSSER TITSSCRILL!”

“Um.  Right.”  John slowly entered the room, checking the door behind her every few seconds, putting herself within the line of sight of the boy and the hallway.  “Who are you then?”

“Tim,” the boy answered shortly.  He looked to be in his early teens with a dark skin tone and short dark hair to match.  He was wearing some sort of pyjamas, sweats and a tank top, socks on his feet. “You?”

“Joan.”  There was a half-empty bag of crisps next to him on the couch, a can of soda on the table in front of him. John’s stomach grumbled.  “Doctor Joan Watson.” 

Tim’s face fell into an ‘o’ shape.  “So the cuntbag has a doc now, does she?”

John’s eyebrow rose.  “I’m not her doctor.” 

“Then what are-” He looked up from his game and his face crumpled.  “What the hell are you wearing?”

John looked down at herself and pulled the sheet further across her body, pulling her trainers out from under the folds.  “It’s- um- look- that’s -that’s not important right now. Do you know the way out of here?”

“No way out,” Tim said, returning to his game, clacking away at the buttons on his controller.  

“What do you mean, no way out?”

“Bitch has cameras all over.  If I step out of this room, she’ll know it and send Tom or Jerry to pick me up.”

Cameras.  John thought she had dodged them all but she had been too busy checking out the scream to properly scan this room.  There was one in the corner. Damn. Glenn was down and Stevie occupied, but they were on even more borrowed time than she thought. 

John went back to the door and checked the hall.  Empty. Best to build a quick rapport and shove him out the door.  “Tim, why does Moriarty have you locked up here?”

“Is that her name?  Never said.” Tim shrugged and continued playing, shifting side to side with the character on the screen.  “And it’s not so bad. At least I get clothes. What she kidnap you for?”

“Long story.”  John’s eyes darted back to the camera.  “I pissed her off.”

“And lived?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”  John shot him a quick smile.  “Did you piss her off, Tim?”

Tim scoffed.  “Me, oh no.”

“Someone you knew?”

“My mum.”  Tim shrugged, as if it were not big deal.  “Don’t know what mum did exactly.”

“How long have you been here, Tim?”

“Oh, about a month, I think?  Hard to tell. I only got the game station about a week ago.  No internet except to chat with these FUCKERS!” He slammed his fingers onto the controller and shook it left and right.  

John’s jaw clenched and she lifted the gun back to the door.  “Do you mind keeping your voice down?!”

“Oh don’t worry about it.  They don’t pay me much mind.  Just the meal visits from the housekeeper, you know?  And a phone call every so often with her royal cuntface.”  Tim tossed his head to the side and mocked Moriarty’s Irish lilt.  “Tim-Tim is a fit as a fiddle Mrs. M.”

Why did that sound familiar?  Tim M. Should it? Tim did not sound like a name she should know.  He was just some kid playing video games. The only boy they had been looking at recently was- oh!  “Wait, is your mother Gabby? Gabby Miller?”

Tim stopped tapping buttons, though his gaze did not leave the screen.  The sounds of his character dying shrieked through the speakers. “What’s it to you?”

John pinched her eyes shut and tried to remember the name of the Miller family.  Gabby Miller, single mother to a teenage boy. She only glanced at his name once and she did not have a Memory Palace to revisit but she swore his name ended with a ‘y’.  

“Timothy,” John said aloud.  “Timothy Miller.” 

Tim glanced at her but went back to tapping at his controller.  

Gabby was still alive somewhere.  Moriarty kidnapped Timothy for collateral, just as she had John.  Even if the case was mostly already solved, Sherlock would want to know about this.  John needed to get them out of the stupid mansion. 

“Tim,” John said urgently, returning to the door.  “We need to get out of here. Now.”

“I told you.  No point. There are cameras and shit.”

John growled.  “Fuck the cameras.  I am a war veteran.”  She pulled her toga up once again and spared the boy a quick glance.  “If I can’t beat a bit of technology, then my training was for nothing.”

“But the guards-”

“I last left Glenn unconscious in my hallway.  He’ll be waking up soon so the faster you follow me, the better.”

Tim’s brow furrowed.  “Glenn?”

“The really fat one.  Looks like a bear.”

“Shit.”

“Quite.  Let’s go.”

“But-” Tim stammered and dropped the controls.  He nervously pat his hands against the tops of his thighs and stammered.  “If- if she catches us- she’ll be mad and- she’ll-”

“Tim.”  John approached slowly.  There was no telling what this kid had seen in his time with Moriarty.  He really was just a kid. A kid who was going to grow up too fast and needed to do some of that growing up in the next five minutes if he wanted to live.  “I know this is difficult. But I need you to soldier up right now. This isn’t a game. I have a friend, a detective friend. They can help get your mother back.  But we need to leave. Now.”

Tim swallowed harshly. 

“Alright, Tim?”

Tim nodded.

John led the way down the hall towards the front of the house.  There were more cameras the closer they got to the front but they could easily evade their line of site. 

They made it all the way down the carpeted hall.  There was a balcony overlooking the foyer and it had an excellent view of the front door.  

“Alright,” John said and turned to Tim who was breathing harshly down her neck, never letting go of her sheet.  “You stay here while I check the front. I want to check for any alternate routes and make sure Stevie is still in the back-”

John and Tim jumped as the phone in her bra started to blare.  John jumped to rip the mobile out as she shoved Tim into the closest room, hoping for the best.  It took a moment for her to lift it out but she was able to silence the blasted thing and turn off the alarm.  

The alarm that read  _ Camera 4.6 Motion Detection Activated. _

“Fuck,” John hissed.  “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What?” Tim whispered, panicked. 

“You were right about those cameras.  Okay, we don’t have long. We need to get out of here.  Look for an open window or another way out.”

Tim nodded. 

John did a sweep of the room as Tim shuffled to the closest window to see if it would open.  In the middle of what appeared to be a library was a giant billiards table. On that table were a series of canvases, each of varied sizes, each faded but clearly showing similar patterns, brush strokes and lines.  They were set up in a diamond shape but there was clearly one piece missing from right center. John did not have time to put together the reasons why, but she knew it was important. She snapped a picture with Glenn’s crappy phone and quickly sent it off in a text without explanation.  She looked up to check on Tim and shoved her ear to the door where she heard footsteps coming. Quickly, she deleted the text and shoved the phone back into her bra and lifted the gun towards the crack. 

Stevie whipped past without glancing at the room they were hiding in.  John waited three more breaths before she called, “Tim! We’re leaving!  Come on!” 

Tim shuffled up behind her and she pushed them both through the door, throwing her gun up at the place Stevie ran off to.  

“Go, go, go,” John yelled as quietly as she could and shoved Tim towards the front door. “Run!”

Tim ran and John ran after him, passing him halfway down the stairs.  They made it all the way to the front door and John threw it open, only to come face to face with a very unhappy looking bear of a man. 

“Son of a bi-”

Silently, Glenn threw up his fist and cuffed John across the temple. 

  
  



	27. Cuntbag

The punch made the world a bit dark but John never truly passed out.  Her body was tossed up and over Glenn’s shoulder as he grabbed a squealing Tim by the arm.  

John felt herself drop like a sack of dirty laundry onto a wooden floor but could not place which room the ceiling belonged to.  

“Oh Johnny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling!” Moriarty sang her way into John’s consciousness, appearing just above her blurry vision in a perfectly pressed suit.  

“D’you ever sleep?”  John slurred. “Vampire, you are.”

“I could you ask you the same thing, darling,” Moriarty smirked.  She reached out with both hands and cupped John’s face. “Oh, Glenn, you hit her too hard.  She’ll have a bruise. What will Sherly do if your face isn’t symmetrical? We can’t have that.  I’ll have to hit you on the other side to match.”

“Cunt-” John hissed and coughed, “-bag.”

“Been speaking with little Tim-Tim, have you?  Those video games really gave him a rotten mouth.”  Moriarty spun to where Tim stood quivering. “I’ll be taking those back, I think.”

“You can’t!” Tim squealed.  “I only just got those!”

“WOULD YOU RATHER I CUT OUT YOUR TONGUE?!”  Moriarty shook her head, as if tossing away her sudden rage.  “Insolent child. I’ll be having a talk with your mother about this.”

Tim gulped.  “Don’t hurt her.”

“Glenn, be a dear and take the boy to his room.  I think a day or two without food will remind him not to talk to strangers.”

Glenn nodded as Tim looked horrified at all of them.  When Glenn took Tim by the arm in a painful grasp, Tim looked over at John and mumbled, “Thanks a lot.”

John tossed her head down to the floor and sighed.  “He’s just a boy. Don’t you have any maternal instinct?” 

“Is that what you need?” Moriarty cooed, leaned over and took John’s face back in her hands.  She lifted her head into her lap and pet at her escaping bangs. “Do you need daddy to care for you?”

John tried to lean away from the touch but her dizzy head made it hard to do much, especially with Moriarity pressing on her forehead. 

“Gabby Miller’s alive,” John mumbled.

Moriarty giggled.  “Are you always so astute?  It’s rather adorable. Or annoying.  Can’t tell yet.”

“Where is she?”

Moriarty poked John’s nose with her finger.  “BOOP! Wrong question.” 

“Alright.  Why is she still alive?” 

Moriarty sighed and scraped her nail up John’s nose, nearly drawing blood with the scratch, pressing hard into her freshly forming bruised temple.  “Annoying, definitely.” 

“If you’re not going to answer any of my questions, then I’m going to bed.”  John’s head rolled and she glared at her chest. “I’m dressed for it.”

Moriarty tisked.  “No, I don’t think so.”  She sang, “You broke the rules.  You tried to escape when I had been treating you so nicely.  That requires punishment. Does Sherlock not punish you properly?  What does she do when you’re being a bad girl?”

John grit her teeth.  “She makes me run laps outside.”

Moriarty sighed and slapped her hand against her cheek and tossed her head into the ground.  She popped back up with a clip of her heels and brushed her hands of any residual John. “I don’t understand why she keeps you around.”

John groaned and pressed her forehead into the cool ground, running through her breathing exercises for pain.  She told Tim the truth. Training had not been for nothing. 

Through her pants, John grit out, “I like the puzzles.”  She chuckled against the wood. “Do you like puzzles?”

Moriarty glared, unimpressed.  

“Do a lot in your spare time?  Childhood maybe? As much as I would love to believe you were hatched out of some egg, I know you had some kind of family.  You ever have family game night? Operation? Take out the organs from an unwilling donor and try to put them all back in proper?”

Moriarty ignored her and stretched her body around, slithering towards the window where she bathed herself in the moonlight.  “Speaking of family. How is your sister? She still attending her meetings? I prefer her out on the town. She’s so much more fun that way.”

John yanked herself to a seated position and hissed at the painful vertigo.  “Stay away from my sister.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”  Moriarty slowly sauntered over.  “She’s quite fit.” She slid a hand over John’s shoulders and continued to circle.  “Genetics, I suppose. Maybe I’ll want to play with her. Game night. Take something out, put something in.  Over and over and over.”

“Shut.  Up.”

“Don’t be jealous, darling.  We can do that too.” She dramatically circled herself around and leaned against a table as if preparing herself to be penetrated, thrusting her hips languidly into the air.  “Though the last one I played with like that died. You saw him. In a urinal. Tied up and made all pretty.”

John looked at the floor, unwilling to watch the thrusting that just added more circles to her lightheadedness.  The windows were coming into focus and there was a fireplace nearby. She could use the poker as a weapon. “With cock rings.”

Moriarty stopped grinding and giggled.  “Yes, that was quite good.” 

John’s hands clutched her aching head but her eyes continued to skate over the small room.  It was a study of some sort. There were a few comfortable chairs and a small desk. Somewhere to read books or have a conversation.  There were a few pictures along the wall that looked heavy enough to throw with some impact. 

“Alright,”  John sighed.  “I have to ask.  Why all the cocks?”

Moriarty burst out laughing, her head dropping to the side.  When she lifted herself upright, there were tears in the corners of her eyes.  She delicately wiped them away, checking to make sure her makeup did not run. “Forgive me.  I find myself so amusing at times.” She chuckled to herself a few more times. “They all died how they lived.”

“Cocks.”

“Yes!”  Moriarty smiled sweetly.  “And what’s the point of keeping them alive?”  Her face transformed, hatred burning into every crease of leathery skin.  “Men. Horrible creatures. Aren’t they?”

“So are you.”

Moriarty moved faster than John expected and a slap echoed through the room.  John held her reddening cheek as Moriarty loomed above her, positively murderous.  “I AM NO MAN.” 

John felt it best to stay quiet until this mood passed.  Moriarty was close now, which was good. She could take her out and then grab the closest table, which was really a small stand.  Stevie or Glenn or both would run in and she would give it all she had. Maybe steal a gun off one of them. 

Moriarty’s thunderous expression fell into a smirk.  “A long time ago, I promised to throw you around, didn’t I pet?”

Moriarty slowly sunk to her knees and framed John’s thighs on either side.  The closer the better. All John had to wait for was the perfect moment, when she was most distracted. 

“Your eyes,” Moriarty gasped and pointed at them, her finger coming dangerously close to poking into them.  “Dilated. Some may deduce you have a concussion but no. Danger. You live off danger, Johnny boy. Thrive on it.  I am the most dangerous woman you will ever meet. The world’s only Consulting Criminal and your best friend’s archenemy dominating you.  Being with me would be the ultimate thrill for you.”

Moriarty’s hand dove behind John’s head and pulled her hair sharply, exposing her bare neck.  Her other hand roamed up and down John’s arm. 

“No one else could do it for you like I could.  Sherlock and sex is a ridiculous notion. She’ll never be able to give you what I can.  You were so good for me earlier, on your hands an knees. I’ll have you there again, crying for more, screaming my name.  You’ll be begging me to let you fuck yourself on my hand.” Her hand trailed to John’s inner thigh, her cold fingers dipping under the sheet and across her exposed midriff.  “I might even let you come. If you’re a good little puppy and lick me just how I like.” Her hand dipped further down still skirting dangerously close to her center before she ripped her hand back on a chuckle.  “No need to skip so far ahead. I can see how much you want it. Let’s start with a distraction. I so loved it the first time.”

Moriarty’s mouth dove for John’s slack lips.  

This was her chance. 

John gave Moriarty what she wanted.  She met each ravenous bite with a moan and licked her way inside Moriarty’s mouth.  She sucked on her tongue and grazed her teeth over every bit of flesh she could reach.  

Moriarty hummed her approval and gripped John’s arm’s fiercely, shoving them behind her back in a bruising grip. 

John hissed and stumbled with her weight now behind her but this was not her first time in this position.  She angled her neck around and licked at Moriarty’s jaw, biting down hard on bone and sucking. 

Moriarty groaned. 

John tensed her legs, ready to tackle with her body weight- and froze at the sound of two simultaneous clicks. 

Moriarty licked once more across her mouth and pulled back with a smile.  “I knew you were holding back on me.”

John tried to pull her arms to her front but was stopped by the clacking of metal chains and the pull of metal around her wrists.  Handcuffs. 

Shit. 

This changed things.  

Moriarty watched her squirm with patient glee.  “So much more fun when they struggle.” She pulled her arm back and threw all her weight into a punch across John’s cheek.  

Immediately blood started to pool from her already cracked lip.  

Moriarty gripped the bedsheet with both hands and yanked, throwing John’s body all the way to the floor once again, her arms trapped behind her back.  Moriarty quickly dropped her body onto John’s waist and slapped her head hard, throwing John’s gaze from one side of the room to the other. Moriarty’s hand slipped over cheek, over her scarred shoulder and down to her bra.  With one hand she grabbed John’s tit and gripped as hard a she could. With the other she grabbed John’s neck and squeezed. 

John gasped but there was no air.  She blinked past the pain and tried to meet Moriarty’s gaze, fighting for her legs to move beneath her, but the world was getting dizzy once again.  

The smile on Moriarty’s face was positively demonic.  Her eyes were wide and hungry as she squeezed a little bit harder.  The hand on John’s chest scratched hard until four lines were carved into the side of John’s ribs and slicing down her belly.  

“I’ll take you apart and put you back together,” Moriarty whispered in awe.  “Piece by piece.”

John’s mouth gaped open as her limbs started to lose the fight.  Black spots pooled at the corners of her eyes. She tried to call out but no sound was made.   She tried again but it was only the barest whisper of, “Jim.”

Moriarty took a second longer before she let go abruptly and all the air came crashing back into John’s body.   Moriarty was still on top of her so it was impossible to be in a comfortable position to suck the air back in. John gasped and coughed and wheezed all under Moriarty’s amorous gaze. 

“Can’t have you pass out now, when we’re only getting started,” Moriarty said.  She dove into her suit jacket and came up with a small blade from some hidden pocket, no larger than four inches.  

John eyed it’s gleam in the moonlight wearily and coughed again.  Madwoman with a knife while half naked in the study was not on the approved list of ways to die.  

Moriarty danced the blade back and forth before eyeing John’s chest like a blank canvas.  “I’ll make you so beautiful.” 

As the blade came down above John’s already scarred shoulder, she lashed out in a desperate adrenaline rush.  Moriarty tipped to the side and John scuttled back as well as she could until she made it to her knees. 

When John looked up, Moriarty was already standing, the knife in her hand, poised and ready to strike.  Without hands, John angled her feet to the floor and charged upwards, aiming her shoulder for Moriarty’s gut.  

Moriarty huffed and fell to the ground.

John surged to her feet and pulled on her cuffs.  There was no way she was fighting two body guards with her arms tied behind her back.  Without a concussion, maybe. But the fuzzy world made it hard to bet on herself. 

Moriarty growled madly and swept out her legs, connecting with the back of one of John’s knees. 

John fell forward but caught herself on one of the chairs with her shoulder, kicking Moriarty back again. 

Moriarty grabbed with her hands, forgoing the knife in order to cling onto John’s ankle.  

John yanked hard and connected the heel of her trainer with Moriarty’s nose.  

Moriarty fell back with a yelp as John ran to the corner of the room.  

Moriarty was quick to follow so John spun around and kicked the closest table with a raised leg.  The table fell with a clash and Moriarty tripped forward but made it over, connecting a slap across John’s cheek.  

John charged forward again, her shoulder connecting with Moriarty’s chest, her head aiding in sending Moriarty back over the toppled table and collapsing to the ground. 

Moriarty screamed. 

The door banged open and Stevie and Glenn came charging in, weapons raised. 

Moriarty clutched her stomach and pulled her bloodied hand into the light, a twisted smile on her face.  

John spun around and charged at the window, jumping straight into the glass with a loud crash.  


	28. Map

Trainers were very much appreciated.  

It was difficult enough roaming the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night handcuffed behind her back in nothing but underwear with bruises and blood littering her body.  At least with trainers she could run. 

Lucky enough for her, the first people she ran into were a group of young uni girls out on a night of celebration.  They rushed her to the nearest hospital, staying with her until the nurses shooed them all back home. John owed them all a drink. 

Thinking of drinks just made her want one of her own.  The doctors were forcing her to stay for the rest of the night or until someone picked her up.  Everyone on her ICE list had been contacted which meant she could only wait. 

Tim was her main concern.  She had to trust someone on their team, Lestrade or whoever was available, was on their way to picking him up.  Moriarty seemed not to care about him. That was as good as she could ask for.

The kidnapping was old news.  Nothing she couldn’t process. But Moriarty always added a special flair to hers.  She knew. Moriarty knew that she and Sherlock had… fuck. 

No, not fuck.  But… bloody hell.  

Was there a sign over John’s lips?  Now open to women? Why the hell was this happening?

Best to sleep it off.

The next person John woke up to was a looming figure hovering in the corner of the room.  “I recieved your text.”

John sucked in a breath and grunted.   “Were you able to track the phone?”

“Yes.”  Mycroft entered the room fully and pulled up a chair beside the bed.  “I did assume that was why you texted me and not Sherlock.”

John groaned.  “Please tell me you didn’t rub her nose in it.”

Moriarty sniffed, which meant he most definitely had.  “Sherlock has all the pieces to her map.”

John squinted her eyes at the ceiling, sussing out what what she remembered of the billiards table.  Obviously it was a map. The piece missing was the painting. Of course. God, she could hit herself, but she did not need any more marks.  

“Is that where she is then?” John asked, ignoring the tinge of disappointment she felt creeping up her throat.  

“She knows of your condition and wishes you her sincerest regards,” Mycroft deadpanned. 

John snorted.  That meant Mycroft told her, she probably hummed, and then immediately dove her nose back into her puzzle.  John expected nothing less. 

“Are you here for my debriefing then?”

Mycroft adjusted his umbrella and shook his head sharply.  “That will not be necessary. My team has located the mansion at which you were held.  It was owned by Richard Speal, drug mogul. Found deceased. His wife is safe in their summer home in Italy.  His lover, the housemaid Jessica, was found alive, though badly shaken. Moriarty vacated the premises before our arrival.”

John clenched her fist and glared at the ceiling.  “What about Tim?”

“Timothy Miller, I presume?” Mycroft asked rhetorically.  “I’m afraid she relocated him as well. It is beneficial to know he is alive.”

Beneficial.  Yeah. Great.  Words like that meant Mycroft had a new pawn to play with.  

“I’m guessing you already know his mother is alive too.”  John fumbled for the button to push her bed upright so she could sit properly.  

“Indeed,” Mycroft nodded.  

John sighed out loud.  There was a headache pounding its way down her neck.  “Can you hand me my-”

Mycroft was already holding out her chart, that smug smile directly in place.  

John took it with a grunt.  Concussion was not surprising.  She had the bruising she expected, though she felt it in a few more places than she would have liked.  They gave her stitches after pulling the chunks of glass out of her and those all seemed to be holding well.  She only jumped from the first story, so she had not broken anything, though there was a bit of swelling around her ankle.  At least it was not sprained. 

“So.”  She read back over her blood pressure with a frown.  “You don’t need the debrief and you already know about Tim.  Why are you here?”

Mycroft leaned back in his seat as much as he would allow himself without wrinkling his pristine suit.  His Holmes eyes darted up and down her body and no doubt glanced at her chart as well. “Joan, it may surprise you to know, but you are a friend of the family.  I take that responsibility very seriously.”

John glanced at him from the corner of her eyes.  Friend of the family? Did London have a mafia? Could it be possible that Mycroft had a side job as kingpin?  Or would that be something from his juvenile days? Did he ever have juvenile days?

“Thanks,” she muttered. 

“Besides.  What would Sherlock do without her minder?”

There it was.  Making sure John was back on her feet as soon as possible so she could babysit her charge seemed much more Mycroft than simply checking in. 

“Can I assume you have something specific in mind?”  John asked.

“All in due time,” he replied brusquely.  “If we are done, your clothes are on the counter and I will be sure your paperwork is processed within the quarter hour.  There will be a car to take you back to Baker Street waiting.” 

“Ta,” John replied but Mycroft was already exiting the room.  

It was time to get home and get to work on the map before Moriarty found a way to get the last piece. 

* * *

Mrs. Hudson fretted over John the minute she walked in the door.  Immediately there was a piece of pound cake and hot tea ready for her.  John protested the polite amount but was glad to hear Mrs. Hudson was going to bringing her up a bowl of hot soup.  She was absolutely starving. 

The flat was empty. 

The weight of disappointment that niggled at Mycroft’s appearance sank heavy on her shoulders.  Before going for the jog that included a two day holiday to hell she could remember quite clearly wishing she would not have to see Sherlock for a very long time.  Now, it felt wrong to come home to her absence. 

Moriarty kidnapped her and did some fucked up things.  John escaped. It was all in a day’s work. Yes, there was the added layer of playing pooch, but Moriarty was a madwoman.  It was nothing like what she and Sherlock did. It was violating and demeaning.

When Sherlock told her what to do, commanded her with that hidden smirk or eyes filled with awe, it was out of trust and companionship.  There was a give and take on both ends. It was trusting and fun.

After what happened between them though, would Sherlock ever want to do it again?  They had crossed the line that they had drawn in the sand. They stomped it into nothing with open mouths, grabbing hands, and grinding bodies.  

It should not have shocked John so much.  After all, she did plenty of screwed up things with Sherlock and got off on it.  Sometimes literally. She was fucked up and she knew that. 

But this was something normal.  Kissing and grinding and feeling pleasure.  It was what normal people did. Normal people in relationships. 

How the fuck was John supposed to feel about doing that with a girl?  John was straight as an arrow. Kinsey scale 0. Having that kind of relationship with a girl was unheard of.  Out of the question. 

But it was Sherlock.  Even normal was abnormal with Sherlock.  

John stared at the contacts on her phone.  Harry did not come to the hospital because she was no longer John’s emergency contact.  If she called about this now, what would Harry even say? She would be a cunt about it. There was no getting around that.  Then she would tell John something about fluid sexuality. She would say that if John was happy with Sherlock, who the fuck cared if she was a woman?  Harry would be a cock about the phrasing though. 

The abandoned chess game was still on the floor, the pieces scattered through the room as if someone had kicked them.  The scotch was on its side next to the glass Sherlock had emptied. Sherlock’s dress was in a heap on her chair. 

A part of John wondered if she should wait for Sherlock to come home and tell her to clean it up.  The choker was gone, blood soaked and with her other clothes left behind at Moriarty’s mansion, but she had the lace one.  It still reminded her of Martin but it would work. Sherlock would think of a good reward and they could move forward with their arrangement and past all of the awkwardness.  

Maybe Sherlock did not want that though.  Maybe that was why she had not visited and she was not home now.  Maybe she wanted to avoid ever getting close to doing something like that again.  

John started to pick up the chess pieces one by one, careful not to pull her stitches.  She moved on from room to room, removing candles and ropes from sight, putting away vibrating knickers and cleaning supplies.

If Sherlock wanted to continue, there would be other things to do.  Sherlock would just need to say. 

Otherwise, John would never bring it up again.  

They could move on from this. 

“Oh, you shouldn’t be doing that!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed when she saw John stacking up all the case paperwork, a big bowl of steaming chicken noodle in her hands.

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asked.

“Oh, you know her, dear.”  Mrs. Hudson chuckled to herself as she rifled through the spoons in the sink and washed one off.  “Can never stay still, that one. Always flapping her wings in a new direction.”

“Hmmm,” John agreed and tucked into her soup.  

“You ladies and your cleaning.  Did you never listen to your mothers?  This is completely unsanitary.” She shook her head and tutted, already diving under the sink for gloves and soap.  “I swear, the two of you. I don’t know how you’re not sick all the time with this mold.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do those.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and started in on the pan with crusted on stir fry.  “Just this once. I’m not your housekeeper.”

John promptly shut her mouth.  

“Did Sherlock not tell you where she was going after the hospital?” Mrs. Hudson asked over the sound of running water. 

“Which hospital?” John asked. 

“Why,  yours. She did visit you, didn’t she?”

John shook her head.  

Mrs. Hudson frowned.  “That’s where she told me she was off too.  Oh, I hate to think she wouldn’t visit you in hospital.  Maybe you were sleeping.”

John stared at a piece of carrot floating at the corner of the bowl and shoved it down with her spoon.  “Maybe.”

“I’m sure she was there.  I’ll give her a right talking to when she gets back.  She shouldn’t leave you wondering like this when you’re fresh from a head wound.”  Mrs. Hudson tutted and sighed. “That girl.” 

John pulled out her phone and sent a text.  

_ I’m home.  Where are you? - JW  _

There.  It was direct and to the point.  Sherlock would answer. 

Then the hours ticked by and John became less confident.  

If anything was wrong, Mycroft would tell her.  Sherlock did this all the time. It did not matter that John had just come from hospital.  The worst of her injuries was a concussion and that was child’s play. It was basically a very expensive hotel for the night. 

After one very long and very hot shower, John collapsed on the sofa.   She double checked that the volume on her phone was on loud and gave herself permission to pass out on the couch while letting the telly play old reruns of  _ Keeping up Appearances _ .  

The sound of the door slamming shut had her leaping for the closest book to throw.  Sherlock’s form blurred in front of her as she ran into her bedroom without a word. 

John rubbed at her eyes and dropped the book on the table.  All right, not dead. That was good then. 

Sherlock reappeared moments later with a large bag over her shoulder.  She was running around the room and tearing apart the bookcase looking for something.  

“Where have you been?”  John eyed the bag wearily.  “Where are you going?”

“Airport.  I assume you’re packed?”

John blinked especially hard.  “I’m what now?”

“Do you enjoy wasting your own time?!”  Sherlock spun around, barely glancing at her.  “The map! We’re going to India!” 

“We’re doing what now?” John asked but was already standing, ready to run upstairs for her pack and bug out bag. 

Sherlock huffed.  “Did you not even look at the map you were directly in front of?”

“I was a bit busy trying not to die.”  John ran after Sherlock as she disappeared into the bathroom.  “And it wasn’t like it had giant Xs on it.”

“Coded map with seven pieces.”  She rifled through the medicine cabinet, throwing in supplies from the first aid kit and chucked the rest on the floor.  “You need all seven pieces to finish the pattern, all seven to read only one. With the final piece in place there are multiple potential locations to investigate.  Some more probable than others. We need to assume Moriarty found access to the final puzzle piece so we need to hurry and get there before she does.” 

“Potential locations for what?”  John asked following Sherlock into the kitchen as she rifled through the cabinets.  “Buried treasure?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped and shoved a handful of burner phones into her bag.  “There’s no way to know if it’s buried.” 

John smiled but Sherlock was not joking.  “How very Indiana Jones.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”  John watched Sherlock stomp back into the living room and freeze, eyes inspecting the newly cleaned floor for the first time.  “Why does Moriarty care about buried or not-buried treasure?”

“There is no time!  We have a plane to catch and the cab won’t wait forever!”  Sherlock pounded her way up the stairs and immediately started throwing John’s clothes onto the bed.  

John ran after her and yelled, “It’s not my fault you haven’t told me anything.” 

“Your closet is a disaster.”  She growled at a sweater stuck on the hanger.  “Stupid makes the world go round, but at what cost?”

John hurried to pull out her pack and bag, double checking her passport.  “So we’re just going to up and leave? Right now?”

“Do you want to come or not?”  Sherlock whirled around and glared at John for only a second before her face morphed into something unreadable.  She quickly looked away and snapped, “I could leave you here if you would prefer.” She dove back down the stairs and charged for the door.  

“I was sleeping, how was I-”  John chased her down the stairs.  “Bloody hell- hang on!” Sherlock froze.  “I’ll text Sarah about work.” John turned her way back up the stairs to grab her charger.

“No time to lose!”

While on their way to the airport, Sherlock finally decided John was worthy enough to get all the relevant information, though she still refused to look at her or tell her where she had been. 

“Adela Gunilla,” Sherlock started and then paused. 

“The painter that died.  The daughter to the lesbian who was with the undercover Italian.  Elaine Rookshire.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock nodded.  “In her early years of life, Adela used her talents to hide messages in her art.  Most notably, and yet least known, she crafted the  _ Sette Pizza de Spazio _ .  Seven separate paintings linked in nothing but name, or so it seemed.”

John gestured at Sherlock’s phone.  “Those are the map pieces?”

“Indeed.”

“A map to what?”

“As a woman of the military I expect you to know your history.  The Italians changed alliances.”

“Right, they switched sides for the second world war.  They were no longer on Germany’s side.”

“But they had something prized above all else.  Information. All those secrets. The nooks and crannies.”

“So, Italy exploited Germany by… What? Stealing from them?”

“It’s not as if they took twenty quid.  They took art, gold, silver, women, children.  Hid them away in their pockets without the German’s noticing.”

“So Gunilla made a map to lost Nazi treasure?  Oh my god. It is Indiana Jones.”

“Amata Massimo was very good at her job.  Her partner was not. Hertha was instructed to burn every letter that she received.  She left a very important one untouched. Adela used it.”

“And that’s how she knew where the treasure was?  How do you know about the letter?”

“While you were… indisposed, the map you sent Mycroft gave me the head start I needed to connect the clues.  From there I found the correct someone from the government office to contact. As it so happens, they did note that one of their museum pieces went missing.  Small, insignificant documents from a World War II exhibit. One that upset the donator as he had only donated this item recently, having received it as a part of the will of Adela after her death.”

“The letter?”

Sherlock nodded.  “Liam was the grandson of Adela and has kicked up quite the storm looking for this letter.  When Adela died he inherited the majority of her things, obtaining rightful ownership of the  _ Sette Pizza de Spazio _ .  Adela had broken the set up and only one piece was accessible to him as it resided in the local museum.  Liam only wanted what would bring him the greatest amount of money. He kept some items, sold others, and donated few.  He made a deal with the museum. He would swap out the painting for all the notes and letters he inherited, as he presumed they would be worthless.  He already had a buyer for the painting ready and shipped it off using Gabby Miller. It was only when Moriarty questioned him after her final puzzle piece went missing, and all the documents he recently donated were unaccounted for, he realized the worth of the pieces he had let slip through his fingers.”

“Moriarty stole the documents?  Why not the painting in the first place?”  

“They were in transition.  Less secure. Easier to steal.”

“I thought Moriarty was in a rush.  That’s why she used us.”

“She was only in a rush because Liam caught on.  He has a backup of all of his grandmother’s works.  It was only a matter of time before he linked the pieces together and attached the meaning of the letter to decode the map.  His copy of the letter was mysteriously missing. Hence his demand from the government and law enforcement to find his donations and bring them back.  Without all pieces and the map, it is gibberish. With all seven art pieces and the letter, it becomes clear.”

Sherlock held up her phone and zoomed in on the enhanced photo John took of the map pieces.  The room was dark when she took the photo and there was only so much a computer could do but she could make out the lines and dots that normally made up a map.  There were also letters and numbers etched into the sides like a grid on every frame. 

Sherlock swiped over to the photo of their small 10 x 10 cm puzzle piece and it looked the same, only more clear.  A bit of the abstract colors still bled into the markings.

Another swipe revealed the copy of the letter Sherlock referred to.  Hopefully it was only a copy because John could see Sherlock’s sloppy writing lining the margins, highlighter marking up the cursive letterings. 

Sherlock continued to explain.  “No doubt the letter was originally written in their own personal code.  Adela adapted a new one with letters and numbers to form the grids.” 

“I’ll bet Liam was glad to hear you took on the case.”

“Perhaps.  I did not speak with him directly for long.  I was… distracted.”

John shifted in her seat.  “Oh.” 

“As the painting was analyzed, I searched through the copies of the documentation Liam provided regarding all of his assets obtained from the will.  According to the journal of Adela, it was not until after the war that Amata was found out to be a spy. They killed her when they realized.”

“Not lung disease then.”

“Hertha was left wondering what happened to her dearly departed.  But the German police were not inclined to look for her missing Italian girlfriend.  The paintings were forgotten in time.”

“Why did she never look for it herself?  Hertha or Adela?”

“Lack of resources.  Or perhaps they foresaw the consequences.  War is the perfect climate for crime. Chaos, destruction, death.  All ingredients in the perfect cocktail for the underbelly of society.  They had seen enough death in their lifetime.”

“Right.  It would kick up quite the storm now if someone found a large amount of gold and silver without a rightful owner, nowadays.” 

“Which is why I believe Moriarty is after it.”

“She plan on starting World War Three or something?”

“Good for business.”

“Not good for survival.” 

“Not her concern.”

“We just have to get there first.  Shouldn’t be a problem for you, right?”

“A photo of the original is not as reliable.  We must assume Moriarty has all of the originals.  All but one.” She pat her bag. “That gives us a slight advantage.  There are seven potential locations. None of which are clear.”

“So you’re guessing.”

“I am deducing probability!”

“All right.  Whatever you say.”

“Adventure awaits.”


End file.
